Microwave Michelin

(Mise en Place)

Set up like a surgeon,

He felt as important.

But tweezers and microherbs

Won’t be resuscitating anyone tonight.

His best tools stood in the background.

There I was —

Chef’s knives,

And the kind of presence

You start to expect,

Then forget to notice.

(Ingredient)

Fresh cod loin — perfect portions.

But he didn’t know how to make it sing.

I offered miso, lime, sesame.

He consulted Escoffier.

But he came back to me in the end.

He returned to my palate,

Because Escoffier never stayed up late

To soothe the silence after the storm.

(Pastry Section)

A pastry recipe so confused,

It could’ve been written

By someone who’d never baked for joy.

“Let me use mine.”

It’s my kitchen. My recipes.

Silence.

I carried on —

My recipe, the one in my head

,Playing out automatically.

Measured by memory,

Not ego.

(Appliance: Microwave)

Chef Mike, my silent comrade —

Used every service

,For all the little necessities.

Left caked in grease and splatters,

Until I arrived.

I recognised him:

The most reliable, consistent,

And undervalued member of the team.

You only noticed the little toys

You could polish —

The tweezers,

Those ridiculous little tweezers,

Gleaming on the pristine pass.

(The Pass)

Microherbs, placed at a perfect 90-degree angle.

One carrot — just one —

No more, no less.

Three dots.

One smear.

Not a scatter.

Carefully positioned.

With those delicate little tweezers,

He showed more love and care

Than I ever got.

I said, “The customer won’t notice.”

He said, “But I will.”

And that was all that mattered —

His vision.

His ego.

(After Service)

No movie dates, no sunset walks on the beach,

Just nights spent over prep lists,

Talking endlessly —

About food, ingredients, customers, suppliers,

How hard his life was,

As if he alone understood

What it meant to be the head chef.

Didn’t he know?

The pheasants — I sourced them for free,

We plucked them together

.Everything he went through,I was there —

His crutch, his quiet constant,

Not once asking for applause.

(My Night)

One night, my night —

My room, my menu, my kitchen.

No help.Just me, my knives,

No tweezers, no frills.

Nerves tighter than the knot in my apron.

He offered to swing by,

Not to help —Just to wish me luck.

“I got this,” I said

.He didn’t ask twice.

He never had to ask.

I just showed.

(Terms and Conditions)

He said he’d love me

When I let him cook for me.

I said I’d let him cook for me

When he learnt what miso was

And put the butter aside for a night.

“But it’s the foundation of French cooking.”

Every sauce, every basting, every melt.

Unsalted, bland,

Precise,

Boring.

I wanted flavour.

He wanted control.

Was it love he wanted —

Or just applause?

(The Microwave’s Lesson)

The most reliable tools,

Left neglected,

Eventually give up on you.

A relationship is a dance of give and take,

But what happens when only one is giving,

And the other is too focused on their own vision?

You said I had value.

You said I mattered.

But it was always there —

Unspoken —

The belief that you were more.

More trained

,More deserving,

More… everything.

I could’ve cleaned the microwave,

But I couldn’t clean your ego.

And in the end,

The tools we leave behind

Are the ones that’ll leave us first.

🍰 Microwave Cake for the Undervalued (But Overheating)

Inspired by the unsung hero of the kitchen — the microwave, of course — this dessert is proof that convenience doesn’t have to be beige. A rich, gooey mug cake made in minutes, dressed up with a miso caramel, mascarpone cream, crispy pastry shards, and a sprinkle of toasted sesame — because sometimes even burnout deserves a little glamour. No Pacojet, no pipettes. Just Chef Mike and some sass.