Frozen Burritos

Now, there’s not much I hate in this world. In fact, those closest to me may note my tendency to meet obstacles with, (dramatic sigh) “It’s a problem. I’m a problem. Life is a problem, and it sucks. But there’s also butterflies.” and continue on with life. In spite of the sucky nature of life, I do my best to find butterflies in every moment. This is not my point.

There are very few things I hate, but I can think of at least one.

Now, close your eyes and imagine, if you will, that it is late fall. In the morning, you awoke to snow. For about an hour, it fell soft on the grass, and in the trees, and on the roofs of the houses of your street. The feathery flakes replaced the birds that so recently abandoned your chilly suburban neighborhood (although you technically live in a city, most people still think of it as a town), and for a moment, there is quiet. Not silence. Quiet. A sort of almost-silence that isn’t scary. A sort of quiet that takes up the appropriate amount of space. Filling its moments, and only its moments, with a special sort of peace.

Soon, the snow turns to cold rain, which patters against your window. It falls, simultaneously predictable and unpredictable, like ocean waves, or younger siblings. There’s a pattern to it. A code you can’t quite decipher. The quiet is gone, replaced with something new, but not unpleasant. A deep yearning for warmth. A hunger for comfort. This newfound appetite for coziness is satiated by a blanket.

Time moves quickly. Soon, it is three in the afternoon.

You have spent hour after hour working on a project which may never see the light of day. You take a break, admiring your work. Suddenly, you feel an ache in your stomach, and you realize you haven’t eaten anything all day. You open your cupboard but, “Oh golly gosh goodness!” there’s no instant ramen. Only an empty package. Silently, you curse yourself.

You open the fridge, but there’s only a half filled carton of cottage cheese, various condiments, pickle juice, and apples you need to save for a pie. You sigh, life draining out of you. All seems lost.

Suddenly, an idea strikes. It’s lightning, the culmination of Ben Franklin’s kite and key. It’s a eureka moment. For once, the faeries (that is, assuming you live in a plane where faeries exist) have interacted with your life in a benevolent way. (Unless they ate the last packet of ramen, then they started this mess in the first place and you should find someone to get rid of them.)

You open the door to your freezer (using only your pinkie finger for some reason?) and glance over the contents, all frosty, (like a particular snowman) but do not see your prize. Defeated, you almost give up, but a touch of orange catches your eye. Hidden under the ice.

You pull the shelf (basket? Tray?) towards you and lift the ice out. It’s cold in your hand. (Almost as if it’s ice or something.) Underneath you find what you’ve been searching for. A forgotten pack of frozen burritos. You lovingly remove a singular burrito, placing the rest back on the shelf, and replace the ice. There’s no doubt that you’ll forget about them again, but you’ll inevitably just blame the freezer dragons for hoarding them.

You open the burrito’s packaging and place it in the microwave. You press the buttons that amount to the required time, and press the start button. The burrito starts spinning, catching heat. Although you know that you’re meant to “supervise” the microwave, you walk away. Surely, the house won’t burn down (although that’s been known to happen).

You take a green mug from the cupboard, and walk to the bathroom, because the water from that sink tastes better than the water from the kitchen. (Why it does, is a mystery to both of us, but I would place the blame on the sewer serpents, seeing as they purposefully choose not to live in the pipes of bathroom sinks.) You down the water in the mug, and it seems to bring your throat to life. You realize you haven’t spoken to anyone all day. (You really need to get out more.)

You set the mug down on your kitchen counter about three seconds before the burrito’s timer goes off. The microwave beeps five times. You open the microwave, retrieve the burrito, and set it on a plate to cool. As it cools, you pull up one of your favorite songs, and listen to it. When the song finishes, you pick up the burrito, and immediately drop it, as it is still too hot. You wait a couple minutes, and, tentatively, pick it up again.

Finally, you bite into it, and it is perfectly warm. The deliciously cheesy flavor seems to explode

in your mouth. The deep-set yearning for warmth that you felt this morning is reawakened and satisfied in the matter of a single second. Never before has a microwaveable burrito tasted so good. At least, never before in your memories. You take a second bit, and it is as wonderful as the last.

The third bite is the part I hate. When you take that third bite, expecting warmth, and are instead met with a wet, cold, mouthful of ice. At first, it seems a betrayal. A curse brought upon you by a witch from a far-off swamp (or a deep dark wood), but after a moment, you realize your own folly.

You should have used the oven, after all, the tiny invisible microwave wizard has never liked you. Not even a little (perhaps because you never learned their name). Even a fool would have realized this, but you must have forgotten, in such a hungry state.

Regardless, (and with a heavy sigh) you decide to unceremoniously chuck it in the oven for a couple of minutes. The timer goes off. And it is over.

Finally, you taste your sweet (savory?) reward. (With no icy bits.)

Your quest for coziness is complete.