The Magic Microwave

"The Magic Microwave" arose from my quarantine musings and is about letting go and accepting the strangeness that is life. I think most of the world feels out of control these days, especially with a global pandemic that seems to have no end. These feelings of uncertainty and helplessness inspired me to write the main character, George, who feels unfulfilled and stuck in life. He is trying to navigate graduate school and launch a career as a writer, which is proving harder than he expected. Everything changes when he inherits a mysterious microwave from his great aunt that appears to have magical properties. The story relates to this year's theme (Plucking out the thorns: Laughable disasters) because the world as George knows it is suddenly ripped out from under his feet, and he is left with no choice but to move forward and embrace life with humor.

Audrey Novinger

The microwave had belonged to George's great aunt, Jessie, who, upon moving into an assisted living home, entrusted him with its care. "Make sure to look after it, George, dear," she'd told him. "There's nothing like that microwave anywhere these days."

George had nodded, eyeing the battered appliance with suspicion and low expectations for its remaining lifespan. Nevertheless, he did not want to disappoint his great aunt, who had been nothing but kind to him since he was a child. So, it was with great care that he hoisted the weighty machine into his car trunk and drove it home across three states to his apartment, where he set it up beside his chipped coffee pot. He figured he might as well give it a chance. His last microwave had recently malfunctioned. Perhaps this would allow him to put off buying a new one for a while.

George plugged the microwave into a free circuit (to minimize blowing a fuse in his freshly painted kitchen) and pulled on the door handle, which opened downward like his oven. Nothing happened. He pulled again. It was stuck. Sighing, he reached for a metal spatula to wedge into the space and eventually managed to pry the door open. The inside was slightly less horrendous than the outside, but only slightly. The square glass plate contained several chips, and something orange stained the walls. The light bulb worked, amazingly.

Alrighty, George said to himself, time to see if the old thing works. He found a container with some leftover mac n cheese and popped it in for one minute and thirty seconds. He winced at the garbled whine of the machine and was relieved when the horror stopped. Holding his breath, he removed his mac n cheese and lifted a forkful to his mouth. Apparently, one minute and thirty seconds on full power had done absolutely nothing to improve the temperature.

"Darn piece of garbage." George took his macaroni to the table and ate it cold.

The next morning, George opened his pantry to find he was out of his favorite cereal. It wasn't the first time. Ever since accepting a position as a Creative Writing TA at the university, he had become busier, and being busy always made him forgetful. It didn't help that he was two months behind his self-imposed deadline for a short story competition. He'd sort of hit a wall when it came to writing, which was funny considering that he was supposed to be helping college kids overcome their writer's block. But, after failing to receive any replies from the committees to whom he'd sent several of his finest pieces, the thought of writing was at best intimidating and at worst a source of discouragement. And George was getting tired of feeling discouraged.

George took stock of his food supply and grumbled to himself. Well, his breakfast options were either more mac n cheese or creamy peanut butter. Not exactly what he'd been hoping for, but he wasn't in the mood to make a run to the store. Plus, he had to be at the university in 20 minutes. He supposed he would try the microwave one more time this morning before taking it to the curb. Perhaps he could have warm mac n cheese with peanut butter.

Gathering what was left of his hope and macaroni, George pried the sad-looking microwave open and started it once more. When he opened the door this time, he nearly choked on the saccharine fumes that hit him. "What in the-" he spat in disgust. Had he burned his breakfast? Had the machine blown a fuse? He cautiously lifted his mac n cheese from the microwave with a hot pad.

It was brown. And it smelled sweet, but not as pungent as the fumes. It smelled of chocolate, and it looked almost like...well, it looked almost like his favorite chocolate granola. In fact, now that George held the bowl up close, there appeared to be a milk-like substance suspending the once-was-macaroni, which was even shaped in little hearts like his favorite cereal. This was too odd. He had never burned something so badly that it actually made his mouth water. If anyone with more sensibility had been there to stop him (and if he wasn't about to be late for work), he wouldn't have lifted that spoonful to his mouth. But there was no one else there, except his cat, Maggie, who was snoozing soundly. So, George did what any curious (and hungry) human would do: he tasted a mouthful of the chocolate granola-resembling substance.

"Ohmygod." George mumbled around a mouthful. It tasted just like his granola. He started to lift another bite to his mouth but then stopped. What was he doing? He could get food poisoning. And this...this was ridiculous! Who'd ever heard of a microwave spitting out cereal? His bewilderment suddenly changed to fear and he tossed his bowl's contents into the trash. "Crap." he muttered, checking his watch. He was going to be late. Grabbing his keys he gave the microwave one last horrified look before racing to his car.

George didn't get home until around 6 pm. He was too weirded out by the morning's events to go back to his apartment and his new microwave. After work, he made himself take a trip to the store, enduring long lines of traffic just to get there. He bought two bags of non-microwavable foodstuffs. When he finally got home, he ate dinner on his porch to avoid confronting the microwave.

Of course, George was still curious. Who wouldn't be after what had transpired that morning? He just needed to give his brain some time to calm down. But patience wasn't one of his strong suits. After tapping his fingers against the porch swing for fifteen minutes, he rose with an anxious huff.

The microwave looked the same as it had this morning; faded, battered, and old. This time, George decided to heat a mug of water. Surely that was safe, right? He pressed START and held his breath.

When the smell of tomatoes began to fill the kitchen, George yanked open the door before his meal was ready. "Holy shoot, Maggie." he said to his cat, who was circling anxiously at his feet. "Are you seeing this too?" He pressed his palm to his forehead, steadying himself, and then used a hot pad to remove what now appeared to be a plate of lasagna, thick with gooey cheese and red sauce. God, it smelled good. George made a mental note of the blue-striped plate he was holding; it looked nothing like the beige ones in his cabinet.

He worried he might be having hallucinations. He set the plate down and reached for his cell phone. It was time to give Aunt Jessie a call. If anyone had experienced something similar with this microwave, it would be her. For his sake, he hoped he wasn't imagining things. But, if he wasn't, what did that mean? Before he fell victim to his worries, he hit CALL.

"George, dear! How lovely to hear your voice. How are you?" Aunt Jessie said after answering.

"Oh, I'm alright. I have a ton of essays to grade tonight." he laughed anxiously, eager to bring up his more pressing concern.

"Ah, you're a great editor-and writer-if I daresay. I'm sure those won't take you too long."

"Thank you," George said. And then, because he couldn't stand to wait any longer, "Aunt Jessie, do you recall anything unusual about the microwave you gave me?"

"Do you mean that old gray one, dear? My special one?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Well," she laughed, "of course it was unusual; there was no other like it."

"But, what exactly do you mean?" he pressed. "Why was it so special?"

"Ah, you see, dear, that microwave was a gift from my best friend when I finished my master's degree. I believe she found it at a flea market. In all the years I had it, it was nothing but exceptional."

"So, you didn't have any problems with it? Nothing wrong with the heating element?"

"Problems? Good heavens, no!" she laughed again. "I must admit: I was a bit skeptical of it at first, though."

"And why is that?" George asked. He was practically sweating in anticipation.

"Well, I don't think I quite grasped how it worked, if you know what I mean. It requires a little breaking-in before it gets used to you. But, George, sweetie, I promise if you keep at it, it will warm up to you soon."

George frowned. "What do you mean it will...warm up to me?"

"Oh, give it time. You'll see. Best if you quit worrying about it. You're too young to have this much troubling you, anyways."

George snorted. "Sorry, I just don't understand-" he was interrupted by his Aunt's muffled yelling.

"Sorry, dear, that was Cynthia. She's one of the nurses. Telling me it's time for dinner-oh good! We're having mashed potatoes! Anyways, don't you worry about it. Give me a call when you have things a little more figured out."

"But-"

"It was so good talking to you dear. Don't forget to come visit!"

"I will. But I-"

"Goodbye, darling. The mashed potatoes await!"

And then he heard her hang up. He sighed, setting down the phone. That was the most help he would get from her right now. He pondered what she'd said about the microwave "warming up to him." That sounded odd, possibly even magical, but then again, everyone else always said Jessie was "wishy washy."

George looked around, as if the answers to his questions would somehow materialize. The lasagna beckoned from the counter. It was just so strange. His aunt. The weird food. All of it. He recalled that he had been craving lasagna a few days ago but was out of sauce (he had settled on mac n cheese instead, of course). Might this machine spit out what one was craving? It had recreated his favorite chocolate granola...

At this point, George figured he might as well go along with whatever prank the universe was playing on him. If anything, this will give me ideas for my short story, he thought. Just thinking about writing made him crave something warm, like tea.

To test his hypothesis, he placed a ceramic mug in the microwave. Sixty seconds later, he opened it to find a mug of tea-a vanilla spice blend, according to the tag. As he marveled at his hot beverage, a story idea began to form in his head. It was not much, to be sure, but George wasted no time. Grabbing his tea, he ran to his stack of notebooks and began scribbling madly. A few minutes in, it was as if a boulder had been dislodged somewhere in his brain, making way for the torrent of words now filling his once-empty notebook.

 George stayed like that for three hours, curled over his notebook as his thoughts streamed through his pen. Some of his writing made sense, and some of it was gibberish. Some of it was nearly illegible. It didn't matter, though. He hadn't felt this energized since...the last time he'd been in the flow, which was several months ago. He didn't know whether to thank the microwave or some other force for this mysterious breakthrough. That night, he fell asleep with his notebook under his head, and Maggie on his chest.

The following morning, George eagerly dug into a plate of banana pancakes he'd procured from the microwave. Although he was still contemplating the direction of his story, he felt a renewed sense of enthusiasm for writing. Over the past weeks he'd begun to doubt his decision to pursue his dreams of becoming a published author. Last night's breakthrough had changed things, though. George was reminded of why he chose writing in the first place: he loved it, and it made him feel whole. Surely, that was reason enough to stick with it, at least for a little while longer.

George's grad student writing group was having a pot-luck dinner that evening. He had stopped attending their gatherings after his twelfth "failed" competition because he felt a bit like an imposter amidst the band of accomplished creatives. But now that he had regained some of his momentum he decided it might not be a bad idea to go. At the very least, some socializing would do him good. Ignoring the possibility that the microwave's powers had given him food poisoning, George texted the chat a quick message saying he would provide a dessert.

Midway through the afternoon and dangerously close to the potluck's starting time, George's kitchen smelled like a science experiment. Something about the cookie dough just wasn't right. Great Aunt Jessie's cookies were always golden-brown around the edges with the perfect ratio of melty chocolate pieces. His batch had turned out dry and shriveled with dark outlines where they'd been pressed against the pan.

Running his hands through his flour-coated hair, George went frantically through his options. He could try again-no there wasn't enough time. He could run to the store and buy cookies, but that's what everyone did. Plus, store-bought cookies tasted (and looked) like playdough. Turning to his last option, George bit his cheek. Was it worth the risk? What if it produced some kind of magical dish that transformed everyone into frogs? Then he'd never return to his writing group. So far, though, nothing terrible had happened after he had eaten the food from the microwave. So, with his fingers crossed he put a plate with his disfigured cookies into the microwave for sixty seconds.

When the microwave beeped, George felt his heart leap into his throat. Everything smelled okay as far as he could tell (it was hard to detect anything besides the smoke in his kitchen). He gingerly opened the microwave and brought his hands to his face with delight: a thick cookie cake lined with delicate white frosting stared back. Oh, it looked scrumptious. George tasted a tiny piece to make sure it wasn't poisoned. When he was satisfied that his human physique remained unaltered, he loaded the giant cookie cake into his car.

The party was at a woman named Nicole's house. When George stepped over the threshold, he was immediately greeted with smiles and hugs from various members of his writing group. "George, we're so happy you made it!" someone said. George beamed. It had been so long since he'd been out, he'd nearly forgotten how great it felt to be part of this group.

"Here, you can set your food on this table," Nicole pointed him into a cramped kitchen.

As George filled his plate with various casseroles and breads, he heard someone exclaim, "Ooh, that looks delicious!" He saw that they were pointing at his dessert.

George smiled nervously as people devoured slices of the cookie cake. Should he lie and say he made it? Despite this being a highly imaginative group, he doubted anyone would believe where the dessert actually came from. As if sensing his thoughts, George's friend, Amy, came up to him and said through a mouthful of cookie, "George! It's so good to see you. Have you tried this cookie cake? Whoever made it really knows their baking!"

Unable to contain his smile or his secret, especially in the presence of a good friend, George looked around and said, "Will you promise to keep this a secret?"

"Oh no, let me guess-" Amy's eyes widened. "You used a mix. Oh my God, you have to tell me what it is! I swear I won't tell anybody."

George shifted. "Well, not exactly. You see...." he faltered and took a breath. It was now or never. She'd either believe him or think he was the strangest writer she'd ever met. Gathering himself, he forced the truth from his mouth. "My microwave. It...it made the cookie cake. It has some sort of magical properties and-oh God. I sound ridiculous. Never mind." he said.

"Uh, no. Now I want to know. And hey, you're not ridiculous." Amy patted his arm.

"Okay." George tried again. This time, he managed to get the whole story out. He told Amy about his aunt and their phone call and how mysterious it all seemed. He told her how the microwave concocted the exact food he needed and how he'd suddenly been able to write again. When at last he finished, he stood waiting for her to laugh or make fun of him. But she didn't. She regarded him quietly and, after a minute, began to nod slowly and smile.

"George," she said, "when I was eight I swear I saw a fairy. I was staring out my window, feeling sad and frustrated that none of my friends understood my fascination with ethereal beings. It was spring, and the flowers on the tree outside my window were dropping tiny petals. I was watching them fall, when a tiny pink flicker caught my eye. I saw what I'm certain was a pair of wings attached to a little body glowing with light. It waved at me, but then I blinked, and it was gone."

"Wow." he breathed.

"My point, George, is that I know I experienced something. Whether or not it was magic or a trick of the light, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps what we both experienced was magic, or perhaps magic is simply a word for the things we have no other words for...yet. Either way, I don't think we should dismiss our experiences simply because we can't explain them using human language."

"Yeah," George nodded. "I agree with that." And then, after a moment of silence, "I guess we should see how the other desserts measure up. Wouldn't want people to think I was too proud to eat non-magical treats."

Amy laughed. "What a wise idea. In fact, I think we should try them all to make sure they are worthy."

"Agreed."

Amy grabbed George's hand and, together, they filled their plates with treats.

Sixty Years Later

"But, Uncle George, surely you don't mean for me to have this?"

"Ah, but how could I not, Mary? It was mine and, before that, it was my great aunt's."

A pause and then, "Yes, but are you sure it's still...safe?"

George laughed. "If I wasn't, do you think I'd still give it to you?"

"Well-"

"Don't you worry about it. Take it home and give it a try. I'm sure it will warm up to you in no time."