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Plasma in the kitchen, peanuts in the brain

There’s a small mica plate in all microwaves called the “wave guide cover.” It’s typically happy to sit unnoticed, but my wonderful model has melted and spewed plasma all over a small bag of popcorn.

“Hi, I was cooking my food in the microwave and I realized the a corner piece was missing from the wave guide after I ate my food! Will this cause any harm?”

No doubt!

I’m told that children learn by the time they quit wetting themselves that a microwave should never, ever, NEVER BE ACTIVATED WITHOUT ANYTHING INSIDE OF IT. Doing so risks a Chernobyl-esque event of unearthly glow and arcing terror. It’s plasma, for Chrissakes! And I am the idiot pressing the accelerator pedal straight to hell.

This little microwave was satisfying. For a device whose entire existence rests on ease-of-cooking, turning that dumb analog dial was terribly efficient. No pecking at numbers, power levels or food types. Twist and go.

I’m running an extension cord toward the river, tears streaming from my bloodshot eyes, my microwave’s door flopping open just as it hits the water.

Ding!

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