Sitting here was I, after just popping a buffalo chicken tender in the microwave and waiting Brian's response as to when we are meeting. I had only finished the first paragraph of an email when I thought "is that smoke?" and "is it coming from the kitchen?" and "maybe it is wafting in from outside." You see, I am sitting by an open window. Deciding I could eat and read simultaneously (yes I am that talented) I go into the kitchen full of smoke. Um.. what? I open the microwave to behold what was supposed to be a buffalo chicken tender was now a buffalo chicken turd that vomited. That's right. Turds now vomit. At some point I went into slight freak-out mode surprisingly not because I could no longer eat that, but because I love not getting caught or making things into a bigger deal than they are. With the smoke I feared the smoke alarm might go off and thus my life would be ruined.
After a few seconds of running in a circle flailing my hands much like a Luna Lovegood-esque dance at the smoke, which might I add is harder to catch than Sirius Black, I realized we have a nifty fan in the ceiling down the hall. This fan has the awesome suck-all-air-out-of-the-house effect that allows for cooler air outside to enter a hot house without the use of air conditioning. Ka-ching. I ran down the hall, turned the Fan of Glory on high, and made sure all doors and windows were open in the smoky area. And that is how microwave directions can lead you astray. Four minutes, my ass! I took a picture too just to remember this memorable point in my life. What a great story it made. I decided there must have been trace, or not so trace, amounts of metal in the "chicken" which caused the uncalled for fire-y demise. I didn't want to eat metal anyway.
'Til next time, hobey-ho!
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