|All romances have common elements: flirtation, infatuation, betrayal, and redemption. No story embodies these more than the simple tale of me and George Foreman.|
I’m talking about me and the George Foreman Quesadilla Maker.
It started innocently enough in Wal-Mart. There he was all sassy and red, promising me luscious healthy meals in minutes. Georgie tugged at my heart with promises of being non-stick and seduced me with his $13.99 price tag.
Our first encounters were awkward. I neglected to interpret the signals Georgie was giving me and discovered you can turn tortillas and cheese into a petrified stone-like material suitable for patching concrete. I persevered, even making the commitment of reading the manual.
And magic happened.
Anything Georgie cooked was ambrosia. I could chop up a football and lawn clippings and turn out picture-perfect meals. Unexpected guests? I diced up leftover pot roast, a gnarly mushroom, soggy celery and some wilted parsley. Tortillas, cheese, salsa, and four minutes later, a steaming hot snack appeared.
Georgie earned a permanent place in my heart and on my stovetop. I broke the news to the oven and I think it was relieved. Our relationship was always uneasy, each unable to quit the other.
Then, one fateful morning, it happened.
Shambling in, I noticed black bits on the stove. Cursing, I put mouse traps on the shopping list and cleaned up the mess. Then I saw the true horror my furry nemesis had wrought.
The black bits were insulation from Georgie’s cord. The mouse had chewed it down to the copper. Shaking off my heartbreak, I did the only sensible thing. I added “quesadilla maker” right under mouse traps.
Imagine my shock after searching for my lost love in Wal-Mart only to be told, “um, those are sold out.” Something must have betrayed my inner turmoil because he mumbled something about sweeping up the pet supply aisle as he backed away.
The Georgie-less days dragged on. In between making peace with the oven and trying to come up with something new to do with hamburger; I shared my tale of woe with a good friend.
He uttered four words that turned my world upside-down.
“Got any electrical tape?”
Georgie and I cooked and cooked that evening. Pork chops browned in olive oil and soy sauce, portabella mushrooms, green onions, mild wax peppers, sharp cheddar cheese and giant tortillas perfectly toasted by Georgie’s non-stick grill plates.
I found his carcass in the trap, the bar across his neck. I felt nothing as I bagged him and tossed him with the rest of the trash. Hey, that’s what you get when you try and come between Georgie and me.