Yesterday, being a hectic Monday and all, I worked straight through my lunch, so, when I got home from work, I was feeling a little peck-ish. Stomach thought my throat had been cut. My big ones were eating my little ones. Since dinner was in a mere 3 hours – and, yet, 3 hours away!! – I decided I’d nuke myself a small potato to tide me over. Hey, since I’m at it, why not nuke 3 bigger ones for dinner later?
I collect my spuds, poke each one a few times with a fork, pop them into the microwave & punch the Potato button 4 times (for 4 pieces). Since I had nothing better to do, I parked my can on a stool in front of the microwave and waited for the 13 calculated minutes to tick away. Gotta love modern technology. No fancy math for you to mess about with, no siree. The machine does all the thinkin’ for ya.
Now, I’ve never really paid much attention to food while it’s in the little nuke machine. I’ve watched popcorn bags expand and listened diligently for the popping to slow so the corn doesn’t burn, but that’s about it. I’ve never really been that curious about the interaction between my food and the nuke. I’ve always kind of liked the mystery of the little magic box creating a meal out of frozen lumps of gray, tan and peach colored matter. But this time, having nothing better to do, I sat and watched the proceedings in a slightly distracted manner. Really, what’s to watch? A potato merry-go-round? Without the music?
About 3 minutes in is when the fun started. I had, remember, the little potato & 3 big potatoes, pierced, spread around the carousel plate – making sure they were evenly spaced to get optimum cooking advantage – rotating around like crazy in the microwave. When the timer had counted down the first 3 minutes, the little guy started doing a bit of a jig. Rocking back and forth in his “personal” space. Maybe he was an Irish potato? It was pretty humorous, but nothing to write home to Mother about.
The rocking became a little more violent about 4.5 minutes down, and, eventually, he was rolling all over the place, assaulting the bigger spuds. “Hey, you! Big, honkin’ spud! Get outta the way!” Like a potato slam dance. Mosh pit. Without the music or mosh-pit-etiquette. The assault became more and more brutal.
Question: Who do you call, when witnessing a violent Attack Of The Killer Potato? The Spud Patrol? COPS? CHiPS? A MAS*H unit?
He began banging violently into 1 specific Big Boy, bashing with the energy, skill & speed of Ali or Tyson. I had to admire his spunk. He had that Napoleon complex, I think. Then, at about 7 minutes down on the timer, he channeled Jackie Chan. He lets out his tiny little Kung Fu-type war cry (SQUEEEEBLE!!), perches up on one end, and then pounces on top of the victim of his assault. “Squeeeeeble, hai-ya!!”
Once atop the Big Boy, Hidden Spud began rolling and bouncing all over that poor potato, all the while emitting his high-pitched SQUUEEEEEEEEEBLE, over and over. Bash! Pow! Whack! Ka-pow! Then, the rocking and rolling slowed down a bit (but not the screaming) and the scene before me became slightly pornographic. I mean, really, is this how spuds procreate?!? Euwww! ::shudder::
At 10 minutes down, Hidden Spud finally rolled off of Big Boy and meandered over to one of the other potatoes (“Mom?”). He just sidled up and lay there whimpering. No more SQUEEEEEBLE. More like “feeble”. I started to feel bad, like Hidden Spud was in pain and I was the brute inflicting this agony on his little person. I felt kind of like a baby-killer. Chester the Molester. I felt so bad, I didn’t even want to eat anymore. When the microwave beeped it’s final “HEY, YOU’RE FOOD’S DONE” beep, I just sat there stunned and filled with remorse. How do vegetarians do this?!? ::shudder::
It took me five whole minutes to get over this episode and make an attempt at eating that valiant little Hidden Spud. I had to hide the body under a boat-load of sour cream & butter. And cheese. Oh yeah, and crumbled bacon & chopped chives. Yummmmy!!!
