Kitchen Surprise

The other day at work I made my way with the usual purposefulness and alacrity to our kitchen, a room without running water, thus violating one of the chief constituents for a kitchen – fire and water – with the aim of nuking up a can of baked beans for my lunch. In the microwave. The can of baked beans was observed to be bulging slightly at the top end where the ring pull device was located, and when I attempted peeling it away from the ring at that end of the can my efforts were met with unexpected resistance, until, with brute force the lid exploded away from the tin, causing a very loud pop. The can had exploded.

My ears rang and continued to ring, and my hair had been disturbed, and a sudden gust of gaseous something had broken against my face. For some reason sauce didn’t go everywhere. In fact it remained in the container. I looked down and examined the contents of the can with the blown off lid. The contents appeared quite baked beany, and some barbarous urge (I was hungry) made me scoop these contents into my bowl and prepare to put them into the microwave. One last look revealed that some of the beans had green parts: something you don’t expect and would think might stir up some form of alarm, even if the can hadn’t just exploded. Yet I still thought about it, and my decision to bin the contents of my bowl was made with one or two slight reservations, wondering if perhaps I was being a mite wussy when it came to food hygiene considerations.

Should have been obvious. But still I questioned. Seems silly to think about this breakdown in my logical functions now, but there was still ringing in my ears and perhaps I was a little bit stunned. (To say in shock wouldn’t be appropriate.)

Earlier, on the way from the station to work I had been lost in thought on the subject of something trivial which I’ve forgotten all about now – although surely if you could have been in there, with me, listening to my thoughts, you’d have been enchanted – and so missed my opportunity to go via the supermarket for a couple of tins of beans and such. Dismissing Don Bradman’s career statistics or why no-one uses the word tortfearer[1] in insults any more (if indeed they every did), I was able to regain my planning and organising senses and remembered that there is a mixed business, like a corner shop, on the way I was going. I could see if they had anything heat up-able, and that’s where the exploding can came from. From memory it was quite dusty and out of the way, on the shelf – perhaps it had been somehow forgotten. When the man served me he called me “Boss”, and that’s never a good sign, as it seems friendly but also smartarse, as if presenting a brand of familiarity totally out of kilter with the one minute relationship we had, he and I, and at the same time masking that we very much are not mates, he has mates, and customers are really just a source of money if you’re smart enough to own a place which sells stuff to them; you feign amity while despising them and take their money for your over-priced crap. Or something. I could be exaggerating or have the wrong end of the stick here. It’s happened before.

But the fact remains that he sold me an inedible product which exploded in my face. I don’t think I’ll be going back there again.

[1] In fact the word is tortfeasor, so I got that wrong too. It means a person who commits a tort or quasi-offence.

Published in: on October 28, 2010 at 7:12 pm  Leave a Comment  

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