All romance stories have common elements: flirtation, infatuation, betrayal, forgiveness, and redemption. No story has more of these than the simple tale of me and George Foreman.
No, not the bald ex-boxer. I’m talking about me and the George Foreman Quesadilla Maker.
It started innocently enough in Wal-Mart. There it was all sassy and red, promising me luscious healthy meals in minutes. Georgie tugged at my heart with its promise of being non-stick. It was seductively priced for the holidays at $13.99. I was smitten.
Our first encounters were awkward and tentative. 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 became instant ambrosia. I could chop up a football and lawn clippings and turn out picture-perfect nutritious low calorie meals. Unexpected guests? I diced up leftover pot roast, a gnarled-up mushroom, soggy celery and some wilted parsley. Two big tortillas, cheese, salsa and four minutes later, a steaming hot snack tray that disappeared in minutes. Georgie was the perfect host.
I saw happiness in our future. Georgie earned a permanent place in my heart and on my stovetop. I broke the news to the oven and it seemed to take it well. I think it was relieved. Our relationship had always been uneasy, each unable to quit the other.
Then, one fateful morning, it happened.
I shambled into the kitchen and noticed a pile of black bits on the stove. My first thought was a mouse incursion. Cursing, I put 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. I have felt less desolation at a failed relationship than I did looking at my Georgie wounded and helpless.
Shaking off my heartbreak, I did the only sensible thing. I added “quesadilla maker” to my shopping list.
Imagine my shock after I combed the aisles at Wal-Mart searching for my lost love only to be told by an uncaring clerk, “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 plans on how to make peace with the oven who relished its new role of pot storage 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 that evening. Oh how we cooked. Pork chops browned in olive oil and soy sauce, portabella mushrooms, green onions, mild wax peppers, and sharp cheddar cheese all diced and then perfectly toasted by Georgie’s non-stick grill plates. Heavenly.
I found his carcass the next morning, sprawled under 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.