Kitchen Catastrophes
The kitchen is where most dumb questions are born, usually while something is on fire.
1. If I microwave a salad, is it soup now?
No. It's a warm salad, which is a salad having the worst day of its life. To become soup it needs broth, a pot, a ladle and a reason to live, and a microwaved salad has none of these. It just sits there, wilted, steaming gently, thinking about the choices that brought it here. The croutons are the saddest part: they went in crunchy and confident and came out like wet cardboard with a dream. In 2011 a man in Red Deer tried to pour a microwaved Caesar into a thermos and call it soup at a potluck. He is no longer invited to potlucks. The lettuce remembers him.
2. How long do I boil water? I like it al dente.
Boil it until it's firm to the tooth. If your water ever becomes firm to the tooth, stop cooking immediately and call a scientist, because you've invented ice the hard way and broken several laws of physics in your own kitchen. Most chefs recommend boiling water for exactly as long as it takes you to forget you put it on, which is roughly 40 minutes, at which point it has evaporated and you are standing in front of an empty, angry pot. For best results, salt the water generously and whisper encouragement to it. Water that feels loved boils faster. This is not true, but it's nice.
3. What do I thaw ice cubes in?
Traditionally, a glass of anything. This process is known as "a drink," and humans have been perfecting it for centuries. For faster thawing, hold the ice cubes in your hand and stare at them until your fingers go numb and you lose feeling in your sense of purpose. For slower thawing, put them back in the freezer, which is cheating, and also just storage. Some people thaw ice cubes in the bath, which is a lovely way to waste an afternoon. Never thaw them in the microwave: they'll come out as a hot puddle and a deep sense of betrayal. See question 1 for what microwaves do to dreams.
4. Can I return a sandwich I already ate if it was
disappointing?
Legally, the sandwich is now part of you. Returning it would mean returning yourself, and most stores have a strict "no customers" return policy, printed in very small letters on the back of the receipt you threw away. You could ask for store credit, but the clerk will want to see the sandwich, and nobody wants to see the sandwich now. Your best option is emotional: write a two-star review that says "the vibes were off," then mention that the pickle seemed distracted. Restaurants take pickle feedback very seriously. Somewhere, a sandwich manager will read it, sigh, and stare out a window for a long time.
5. Is decaf coffee a beverage or a lie?
Both. Decaf is coffee that went into witness protection. It still looks like coffee, smells like coffee and knows all of coffee's old friends, but it can never go back to its real life. It has a new name, a new address in the back of the cupboard, and a story it repeats nervously at dinner parties: "I'm just regular coffee, really, I just like to relax." Real coffee drinkers can always tell. They take one sip, narrow their eyes and whisper, "I know who you used to be." Decaf then quietly finishes its shift, rinses its own mug and goes home to sleep like a baby, which is the one thing regular coffee can never do.
6. Do eggs know?
Eggs know. That's why they come in a container shaped like a tiny stadium: they're watching, all twelve of them, in neat little rows, like a jury. Never crack one while making eye contact. Never say "omelette" in front of the carton. Eggs communicate through a series of tiny creaks you can only hear at 3 a.m. when the fridge hums, and what they're saying is "Dave is next." Nobody knows which egg is Dave. This is why some eggs have two yolks: it's an egg that has seen too much and doubled its emotions as a defence mechanism. Be kind to eggs. They have nothing but time and a shell.
7. If I leave cereal in milk long enough, is it a smoothie with regrets?
Yes, after about 11 minutes. After 40 minutes it becomes porridge, after three days it becomes a science fair project, and after a week it becomes self-aware and starts asking questions, which is how this book began. By week two the cereal has formed a small government, elected a raisin as mayor and declared independence from the bowl. Do not attempt to eat it at this stage. You are no longer having breakfast; you are negotiating with a nation. The milk, meanwhile, has developed opinions about your kitchen and will share them with anyone who opens the cupboard. Wash the bowl. Free the raisin.
8. Is it still a croissant if I bend it the other way?
No. A croissant bent the other way is a "tnassiorc," found only in mirror dimensions and certain hotel breakfast buffets at 6:45 a.m. It tastes identical but makes you feel slightly left-handed for the rest of the day. French bakers have known about this for centuries and keep a secret rule that every croissant must curve like a smile toward the person eating it, to keep morale up. Bending one backward is considered a frown, which is why your barista looked at you like that. Eat it anyway. Bread doesn't care which way it frowns, and butter forgives everything, including you.
9. Why is it a "hamburger" if there's no ham in it, and who is covering this up?
The name comes from the city of Hamburg, which is also not made of ham. The cover-up goes all the way to the top, and nobody at the top has ever eaten ham. Investigators followed the money, then the buns, then a trail of sesame seeds that led to an unmarked warehouse full of pickles who would not talk. One onion ring agreed to testify, but only from behind a lettuce leaf with its voice disguised. The case remains open. Meanwhile, a frankfurter is from Frankfurt, a wiener is from Vienna, and a Big Mac is from nowhere, which is somehow the most honest of them all.
10. Is a lasagna just a cake that went to law school?
Yes. It swapped sponge for pasta and frosting for cheese, passed the bar on its first try, and now specializes in comfort-food litigation. It bills by the slice and charges extra for the corner pieces, which everyone wants, which is how it affords its downtown office. Its layers aren't just layers; they're legal arguments, stacked and cross-referenced, with a ricotta clause nobody reads. Cake is proud of it but a little intimidated at family dinners. Garfield is its most famous client. Lasagna won that case, and it will win the next one, because nobody can argue with something that warm and that confident.