Letter to Microwave Oven

This is immense pressure -- using you to your extreme utility each demanding moment, seeing you past the fridge, and not writing to you. I can almost feel your eyes on me, sometimes accusing, sometimes puppying. So, right after the social media has finished reminding us that Sylvia Plath 'died this day', I write to you. I ought to, actually.

A very good morning, dear Microwave Oven,

Getting you into our family was a great achievement for me, do you remember? I was so happy to have saved enough to gift us all a bit of convenience. I was happier that unlike in other families mine didn't disapprove of your central hot topic of even heating, whether it is healthy or not. And I was happiest that you are so easy to use a kitchen appliance. Over a mentionably long period of time, you have come to fit to the bill. No longer the 'new one', you sit cushioned to serve.

On days that I (in my usual lost-in-the-working-of-things look) think of irrationally impossible to contain flow of thoughts as I stare into how you consistently go merrily round and round, each day, each second, I find myself caught between you and your competitor, the gas burner, sitting tight opposite you. And though I try and suppress, my bias towards you is visible. I guess it gave away the day I started making Maggi with you. What to do? Your compact reassurance is transmissible. I love it that you have the expediency of most things contemporary. It works to your advantage when people enter the meaningless mediation of radioactive rays versus fuel and money. 

But, most of all, I am writing this letter to you out of a camaraderie, rather than a sense of gratefulness. I understand how important your earlier version was to many mad women, the likes of Plath, in the legend of 'putting the head in the oven'. You are the domestic nuclear weapon one uses in defense when possessed, however briefly. You are the graphic idea that has permeated through lines of confessionals. You are the model of madness exercised in deliberation. Your innocuous presence reminds me of one of the many masks role-players put on. And sheds it to reveal wires capable of ghastly explosions. 

These are some of the things that cross my mind when I look at you, and into your monotonous merry-go-rounding of the cold food that you warmly make edible. These are few things that needed to be expressed to you, that I do know of your limitless capabilities. And though you and I both have come to understand that the fridge has received a fantastic letter from me, this is to ensure you that yours is no less. For it comes from a deep perception that defies understanding of a thing as it appears. It seeks to tell you that you are precious for what you are not too. 

In unmasked intimacy,

K.