Learning to leave well enough alone

It was just about a year ago that I got rid of my old, crotchety microwave oven and got a whisper-quiet new one.

The old microwave had served me for nineteen years, a long enough career I suppose for kitchen appliances and quarterbacks not named Brady. It still worked well enough, except that the handle had cracked and was held together by packing tape, and when turned on it whirred and sputtered like an asthmatic chipmunk riding a bike with a baseball card clothes-pinned to fan the spokes. (This is the microwave I’m talking about, not the quarterback, who may or may not whir or sputter when he’s turned on. How would I know?)

But still, when you host a Sunday Bears football party and conversation can’t be heard over the microwave racket while the jalapeno-cheese dip warms up, it can be embarrassing. Well, not as embarrassing as virtually every Bears quarterback in history, but still.

So it was a good decision to get that new microwave oven, which has also served me well.

Well, it served me well for almost a year, because just this week it decided to be a decoration instead of an appliance. I popped in a cup of coffee that needed just a bit of nuking to bring it back to a drinkable temperature, but when I pushed the “Add 30 sec” button, nothing happened.

I tried the 1-minute “Express Cook,” button, but no dice.

I decided to go old-school and pushed the “Cook Time” button, the way our forefathers like Abraham Lincoln had to do with their microwaves back in the “pre-Express” day, then tapped 3 and 0 to get a half minute of action.

Nope.

I unplugged the microwave and waited a half minute or so, then plugged it back in to see what would happen.

The screen read PF.

I shuddered to think what PF might mean in the social media Twitterverse, but I dug into my old-school bucket of logic and hoped it meant “Power Failure.” That would make sense because I had unplugged it, but I’m not sure if modern technology operates according to sensible assumptions.

When I pushed the button, it worked. In a half-minute my coffee was hot once again.

I shrugged and wondered if I could live with a once-in-a-blue-moon balky kitchen appliance, or if it would be worth the trouble of tracking down sales receipts and getting put on endless hold after the store learns that I want to talk to customer service rather than sales. The endless “your call is important to us, so please hold” music is more teeth-grinding than any clattery microwave sound could ever be, and anyway, my new-ish nuker seemed to be working just fine again.

But then a few days later, that microwave oven went all stubborn on me again. I unplugged it and waited a half-minute, and then plugged it back in and pushed the “Add 30 sec” button.

“FOOD,” the screen said this time.

“Well, we can agree on that,” I said. “Now let’s agree to actually do something with the furshlugging food.” Or words to that effect.

I hit “Cancel,” and “FOOD” went away.

I hit the 1-minute “Express Cook” button, and the screen insisted “FOOD” once again. I was starting to wonder if I now owned a hungry year-old puppy instead of a microwave. I hope not, because no puppy should be called the names that echoed off my kitchen walls.

I dug out my sales receipt for the appliance and noticed that it was only a couple weeks short of a year since I bought it, so time was probably of the essence if the warrantee was still in effect. It was still too early in the morning to call the company, so I decided to repeat all the meaningless button-mashing steps I had gone through and jot them down, so I could explain the human/appliance dialog accurately when I did call.

I pushed the “Add 30 sec” button and the microwave purred to life, gently heating my coffee as I roasted the kitchen walls with language that crossed every linguistic line, be it aimed at appliance, puppy, or terrorist organization. Considering that I live alone, my neighbors must wonder at the occasional loud monologues that echo from my house.

When the company opened at 10 a.m., I called and spoke with a friendly man named Daniel who assured me that there should be no problem either repairing or replacing the unit, but that he would have to notify their service department, who would get in touch with me. As I write this, I am waiting for their call. We’ll see how that goes, and if it all goes well, how long wellness will last.

In retrospect, I have only myself to blame. I mean, here I am, an old geezer living in Sun City, my own broken parts held together by tape. I whir and sputter with everything I do, from groaning up from a chair to wheezing back down into it, and everything in between. So who am I to look at my old, crotchety microwave oven — a weary team player that got the job done effectively, if not attractively — and cut it from the team?

There’s something to be said about loyalty to the tattered old soldiers in our life — be it appliance, auto, or recliner — who serve us day after day, even if they stumble and moan through their service to us.

If I had it to do over again, I think I would keep that battered old appliance and drink a toast to it with every cup of coffee that it clattered back to warmth.

TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com.

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