You pull the bag out after a long Tuesday that felt suspiciously like a Monday. The instructions on the back are optimistic, promising a "golden, crispy exterior" in just 90 seconds.
This is a lie, and you know it. But you buy into it every single time, like believing you’ll actually meal-prep next week.
The ritual begins: you arrange six gleaming, breaded cylinders on a paper plate. They look so hopeful, like tiny, frozen torpedoes of joy.
The Microwave: A Drama in Two Acts
You hit "popcorn" button instead of the correct time, because who has the patience to punch in 1:30? The microwave hums, and you watch through the little glass door, a voyeur to your own dinner.
Around the 45-second mark, you hear the first pop. It’s not a good pop. It’s the sound of a mozzarella stick giving up on life, exploding its cheese innards onto the turning plate.
When the timer finally shrieks, you open the door to a scene of melancholy. Two sticks look perfect. The other four are now sad, pale blobs leaking white lava onto the paper plate.
