I miss my oven.
And I realize that's totally stupid — not because it's an appliance, as I've seen and used kitchen gadgets that I'd gladly exchange for half the people I've ever dated. Ditto for certain pints of ice cream.
No, it's stupid because I could have my oven fixed; I just keep putting it off for fear the Oven Guy — or Girl, pardon my sexism — is going to come over and tell me, "You need to buy a new oven" because, to paraphrase our beloved Sweet Brown, "Ain't nobody got money for that!"
Before I rejoined Dubya Dubya (i.e., Weight Watchers) and started running again, I'd eat out nearly every meal. Consequently, my kitchen was merely where my plants Robert and Mr. Ficus resided. Not happily, I might add.
Anyway, now that I'm being all healthy and stuff, I need my kitchen back. So until Oven Guy/Girl comes by and offers an affordable solution, I've been experimenting with my microwave, and I would love some guidance from fellow nukers.
As I've heard some folks joke before, I know my way around a kitchen just enough to be dangerous.
My parents recognized that when I was in grade school and nearly set the house ablaze after putting Rice Krispies sans milk in a plastic cup for 60 minutes or something ridiculous like that. I was banned from using the microwave for months after that, which meant no more Peanut Butter Marshmallow Treats — basically, large marshmallows heated for 15 seconds, then stirred with a heaping spoonful of Peter Pan. I thought I was a brilliant confectioner at age 10.
Praise Guy Fieri, my stove top still works, which I use mostly for omelets, low-fat chicken stock and heating nearly empty glass candle holders to melt the wax back down around the wick so I can get one more burn out of 'em. Yankee Candles ain't cheap.
Although I still have microwave anxiety and a slight aversion to rice-based cereals, I've been broadening my microwave horizons. I've graduated from reheating leftovers and popping popcorn to steaming salmon and chicken — and, as of this morning, making scrambled eggs. Not surprisingly, they're nowhere as good as ones made in a cast-iron skillet with a half tablespoon of butter or bacon grease; but "it'll eat," as Papaw said. Plus, it's quicker.
Of course, it'd be even speedier were my microwave not damaged. Thanks to an overzealous house guest who slammed the door shut too hard a couple years ago, I now have to set the cook time, press start, open the door and slam it, then press start again for it to work. Slamming it the first time doesn't do the trick, has to be the second time.
Now, I want to try my egg-white frittata — which I spent two weeks mastering in Lord V's oven — in my own microwave. Yeah, it'll probably be lackluster, but I'm all for taking suggestions on how to make it better without forking over a few hundred bucks just yet. Unless Oven Guy or Girl is a great cook and is attracted to people who name their plants and quote Sweet Brown. Hey, stranger things have happened. I know because I've cooked them recently in the microwave.