“Daddy…Daddy…Daddy!” repeats my daughter getting progressively louder with each utterance.
I finally break my concentration from intensely staring at the microwave, willing the impossibly long two minutes to be done so I can scald my tongue on a lava hot piece of leftover pot roast.
“Yes, Pumpkin” I reply without taking my eyes from the slowly rotating piece of dead cow.
“I’m not a Pumpkin Daddy!”
“OK, peaches, what do you want?”
“I’m not peaches either, I’m not a vegetable or a fruit! I’m Emma Jo!“.
“Gotcha Princess!” My finger races to the microwave button in another attempt to beat the beeper as the last second winds down. “What do you want honey bun?”
“Can you set a timer for my silly string?”
“Can I set a timer for your what?! You can’t microwave your silly string honey!”
“No Daddy, set the TIMER for my silly string.”
“So I know when I can take it out of the fridgerator.”
“Um, ok sounds legit. How long does it need to be in there?”
She scrunches up her nose and wrinkles her brow with intense thought.
“How about, 60, 30, Hundred, Thousan’ minutes!”
“OK Dokie, Pumpkin. 30 Minutes it is.”
I set the timer on the microwave as she reverently places two small cans of silly string on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Reach into the microwave and burn my fingers on the 400 degree plate, slap the meat between two pieces of bread and take a tentative bite, my mouth salivates in anticipation of devouring the thick slice of scrumdillyiscious piece of beef.
I burn my lip!
Still cold in the middle!
“Curse you infernal contraption!”
Just another lunch break at my house.