The Only Button I Trust: A Microwave Manifesto —from the Domestic Goddess Who Definitely Just Burned Her Soup
Listen. I don’t know who designed the modern microwave control panel, but I can only assume it was a bored NASA engineer on his day off. There are buttons labeled defrost by weight, power level, sensor reheat, and my personal favorite: popcorn, which has never in the history of time actually cooked popcorn correctly.
Meanwhile, I, a fully functioning adult woman who manages to raise a teenager, hold down a business, and keep a man alive through cancer treatments, still approach the microwave like it’s a suspicious vending machine in a sketchy bowling alley. I don’t want to program it. I want it to make the food hot and not explode my coffee mug. That’s it.
Enter: the ADD 30 SECONDS button. The only real one. The only one I trust. The ride or die of microwave buttons. The gold hoop of kitchen shortcuts.
I don’t know what kind of psychological comfort this little rectangular button provides, but it’s unmatched. Need to reheat pizza? Add 30 seconds. Forgot your coffee again for the third time? Add 30 seconds. Cooking something frozen that says “heat on high for 5 minutes”? Girl, I’m just out here pressing Add 30 Seconds ten times like I’m launching a missile, hoping for the best.
Do I know what power level 7 means? No. Wattage? Zero idea. Am I ever going to “cover loosely with microwave-safe plastic wrap”? Also no. I’m either slapping a paper towel on it or risking it all uncovered. Sometimes I hear a loud pop, and I just accept that something inside is now wearing a lasagna hat.
And can we talk about microwave instructions on food packaging? Ma’am, I don’t have time to decipher your heat flow schematics. I’m already balancing dinner, mood swings, and figuring out if I can re-wear this bra tomorrow. Just give me numbers. And even then, I’m going to ignore them and Add 30 Seconds until it smells hot enough to burn my tongue.
Oh—and don’t get me started on people who use the “Popcorn” button like it’s trustworthy. That button is a bold-faced liar. You either end up with a half-bag of kernels and disappointment, or a scorched popcorn inferno that smells like failure for three business days.
Bottom line: if the microwave had only one button, and that button was Add 30 Seconds, civilization would be just fine. In fact, I say we remove all the other buttons entirely and add a few new ones we really need:
-Revive Coffee (Again)
-Dinner Smells Burned But Is Still Cold in the Middle
-Melt Cheese Without a Full-Steam Explosion
– Reheat Chinese Leftovers with Dignity
Until then, I’ll be over here pressing Add 30 Seconds like it’s a love language.
Gold hoops on, microwave roulette in progress. Pray for the soup.
And now…
“The Keurig Chronicles: Strong, 10oz, and Vibes”
—because apparently I’m the barista now
I’m just going to say it: my Keurig does too much. It’s not a coffee maker—it’s a coffee therapist, a liquid life coach, a brew-your-own adventure machine with more moods than a teenage girl on the first day of school.
But me? I press Strong. 10oz. Big K. That’s it. That’s the recipe. I don’t know what any of the other buttons do and at this point I’m too afraid to ask.
Every morning, I stand in front of this overly confident appliance that can allegedly make iced coffee, lattes, hot cocoa, and world peace, and I just want it to make me something that tastes vaguely like caffeine and not like defeat.
The Strong button? That’s not for flavor—it’s for emotional support. It says, “Girl, I know you didn’t sleep. I know someone asked ‘what’s for dinner’ before you even had breakfast. I got you.”
10oz is the sweet spot. Anything less and you’re sipping espresso from a thimble like you’re at a Parisian café with no responsibilities. Anything more and you’re basically watering down your problems. I want my caffeine dark, dramatic, and with a vengeance.
And the Big K? The mysterious glowing “go” button that starts the magic. I press that thing like it’s my Hogwarts letter. And then I wait… because my Keurig takes its sweet time. The machine wheezes, groans, and makes sounds like it’s contemplating existence, and then finally—finally—it gives me that hot bean juice I so desperately need to survive parenting, caregiving, and explaining to my teen why we don’t need another $28 Stanley dupe.
Now look—I know there are fancy pods, reusable cups, flavor infusers, descaling solutions, and milk frothers. But I’ve accepted that my relationship with the Keurig is built entirely on blind trust and a prayer.
I am not a barista. I am a woman with a reusable mug and a dream.
So if you ever see me standing in my kitchen, staring down the machine like it owes me money, just know—it’s Strong, 10oz, Big K, or I riot.
Gold hoops on, caffeine engaged, nobody speak until mama takes the first sip.