I was at my mom’s, happily acting like a bachelorette (or rather, not really acting. Because I am…) and having my fill of chapos. I piled on some chicken and sukuma and stuck that sweet looking baby in the microwave (except for the chapo. I don’t do chapos and microwaves. Takes away the flavour. Becomes watery on the edges. Completely unsatisfying. Chapo on a pan is crisp and loyal to the true taste of every chapo ever consumed.
I take food seriously.)
I joyously take the (half) meal out of the microwave and put the chapo on the plate. I am singing…you know. Joyously.
I drop the plate.
I stare at the shattered glass and shattered crisp chapo dreams before me. Then I decide Germs can’t…um…whatever that thing is, I can’t think straight because I am busily thinking ‘Save the chapo! Save the world!’ I put everything back onto the plate.
There are shards of plate in my chapo and chicken. I nearly swallow a few. I clearly have a death wish that day, because I literally notice these agents of the Anti-Chapo Enjoyment Agency (sent by the Microwave Association, of course) milliseconds before I eat them.
I get to the end of the meal in a cold sweat. Why didn’t I stop? (Je ne sais pas) Couldn’t I have gotten another chapo? (Mais oui) Maybe I wanted a blogpost entitled the most dangerous. Meal. EVER.
My friend met Mr. T at the movies. She told me about it. My heart frantically grabbed an oxygen mask to regulate my breathing into its proper rhythm. Like a dula, I asked, ‘Did he ask about me?’ Of course he didn’t. They never do. And of course, he didn’t have the decency to get less attractive. A song started playing in my head (because I live in a movie) ‘fire in her eyes/fire in her eyes/something something she’s got fire in her eyes/’ only replacing the her with his… ‘/I love her scandal/’…
That boy is dangerous, but I need to not see him. Sijui I hama. Not the most dangerous meal ever…but he was a tasty one.
Fire in his eyes…
p.s. So, microwave, or not?