My Whole Deal

Some things are even pretty all burned up and junk.

Locally Vegan, Day 20-something-or-other. Not sure. Let’s just say it has been awhile.

The sunshine decided to hang out for a few days, so I wanted to eat something absolutely beautiful to reflect my radiant mood. Wait, wait, wait. Full disclosure, people. Truly, I’ve been a little PMS-y or Post MS-y, or just plain pissy lately. Carb lows, protein lows, hormones, whatever. Just don’t talk to me unless you’ve got something really, really great to say. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Nothing.

At any rate, I did have some very seductively jewel-toned beets from Michell Bros Farm hanging out in my crisper and the thought of bright colours glistening in the sweet, sweet sunshine brought a smile to my lips that not even my cooing 2 year old could summon. So, I set out to execute my vision: crispy, fat free beet chips.

Beets are so pretty. Prettier than me, that's for sure. And that is why they had to die!

I could see no reason why the microwave method for fat-free chip construction (which I saw for the first time on a blog in the late 90s and, more recently, on Susan Voisin’s pretty website) would not work with mandolin sliced beets. Are beets not root vegetables? Do they not bleed the blood of the Earth in the very same manner as the humble potato? Perhaps I was just too dramatic and manic as I sliced into the vibrant gold and ruby flesh of my victims. Perhaps I was overly distracted by the wiles of Twitter and Facebook and howtochooseanicecreammaker.net to fully appreciate the task at hand. Perhaps I am a bit of a ditz at times. Whatever the cause, the result was thus:

I killed'em. Killed those beets. Killed'em. (I'll send you a present if you can tell me what movie I'm paraphrasing!)

So, all I really know is that I was watching some inane video of a puppy explaining the energy crisis or something and then my microwave started emitting this über ominous humming sound, which grew angrier by the nano-second, until it seemed to be shouting, “I will melt you. I will melt you. I will melt you” in a strangely hypnotic/terrifying siren song. So, I jumped over our counter-top island in a single bound to witness the most spectacular light show this side of the kitchen.

I feel I must digress here for but a second. In early 2002, my first son nestled cozy in my womb, I was party to the craziest fondue accident since 1974…I’m guessing. People fondued more avidly back then, no? Anyway, my “who’d-of-ever-guessed-would-someday-be-my-husband-at-the-time” husband saved the day (not without losing most of the flesh from his right hand and some handsome venetian blinds), but the whole incident instilled in me an innate fear of massive, seemingly unprovoked fireballs. So, I freaked out yesterday.

I’ve always been skeptical of microwaves and a microwave full of fire is just bad mojo. Taking note that my babies were sleeping soundly upstairs, as soon as my feet touched the floor on the other side of the island, I entered ninja mode. I shut-off the fiery beast and opened the patio door, 7 feet away, in one fell swoop (with a super-cool kartwheel in between) and landed in a crouch on the deck. Lowering myself to a very effective half-push-up position, I lay in wait, anticipating the evil appliance’s next move. Fourteen and a half minutes later, I was overwhelmed by an urge to update my Facebook status in a witty and timely fashion. Then I watched The Young and the Restless for a bit. It wasn’t until my husband read said status and called home that I was brave enough to open the microwave door.

I did not get burned that day, my friends. But I was met with a crazy, paradoxical mess: soggy, crispy, wet, burned, beet bits.

Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow. Just don’t send me any Charlie Sheen memes. Those distract me every time, lol, lmfao, rotfl, immagunnaeatchoo. Sigh. My English degree is so worthless.