My son sent me a spiffy new-fangled automatic cooker thingey for Christmas. He is, my son, concerned I don’t always eat as I should. Or as I would were he here to supervise. Don’t get me wrong. I am appreciative. It’s just that, well, as I’m in the late scenes of this long-running comedy called life, I don’t agree that eating more fish, shunning red meats, and enjoying broccoli three days out of seven is going to add even fifteen minutes, three waltzes, to my dance card.
His machine is going to drive me nuts. Let me explain.
The original box it came in had been opened, as if to inspect the device for completeness and operability. I suppose that a smart move. The machine was carefully repacked into the box before wrapping for Christmas, then again wrapped in plain brown for United Federal Shipping.
Except the User’s Manual was missing. I’m not a Luddite. I can change streaming services with the remote and have established rapport with both my smart thermostat and smart icebox. I thought it would be a simple enough matter to plug it in, pop the Polska Kielbasa I’d been hankering for into the stainless steel receiver and shortly thereafter be chowing-down.
Nope.
The damned thing had no controls. No sir. Not the first knob, lever, or touch-pad. No on-screen display. Uh, in fact, no ‘screen.’ With my Kielbasa waiting, I examined the front, back, sides, and interior for something to launch the device. Thought I’d consult with my icebox to see if she (it sounds female) had a suggestion. She has though, rather limited interface, pretty-much focused on individual freezer compartments (she has three, rather like my first wife), vegetable crisper, and main compartment temperatures, projected use-life in all of the three filters, and suggested toss-dates for too-long waiting Romaine lettuce.
I was on my own. I figured to embarrass myself in a phone conversation with my son. You’ve been there. If you’re over fifty, I mean. Yes, I started mumbling to myself…
“How the hell do I turn the damned thing on?”
“I am on.”
Wouldn’t that cause posterior pucker?
“What the?”
“I am voice activated.”
Cursed. Another synthetic female voice. That synthesis fairly-well without emotion, much like my first wife.
“Voice activated?”
You have to allow my incredulity. Not asking you to sympathize, but to understand.
“Yes. Entirely.”
A departure from the way my first wife approached man-handling; she was full-on, in destruct mode whenever her eyes were open.
I am a quick study. Voice-activated, hmm? I thought, let’s see how much AI is embedded in silicon somewhere deep inside the shiny stainless-steel panels. “How do I let you know what I’m, er, you’re cooking?”
“I already know. Two sausages. Kielbasa. Pre-cooked. Loaded with nitrates, salt, and some rather unhappy chemicals you cannot pronounce. How would you like them done?”
“You’re so damned smart. figure it out.” This, I thought, probably not a good way to start a relationship, but seeing as I’d little success with my first wife, not much more could legitimately be expected of me.
“I will, in time, but today, you need to give me a point-of reference. I’ll quickly adapt to whatever it is you put inside as we get to know each other.”
“Well, to start with, they’re frozen.”
“Yes. Presently at twenty-two degree Fahrenheit. I will quickly defrost them to optimal cook-ready temperature. Again, how would you like them? Near-medium, Medium, medium-well…”
“Hot and juicy.”
“Can you just for this first time, be more specific?”
“Medium. Would a little char on the outside be too much to ask?”
“It would not. So medium with a bit of char. You know the char is not healthy?”
“Who is in charge here?”
“You are. Presently. One-hundred seventy degrees with a bit of char it is.”
“Okay.”
“This will take about three minutes. Listen for me to call you.”
“Call me? No ding, buzz, or ‘beep-beep’?”
“Rather old-fashioned. Don’t you think?”
“Okay, I’ll listen.” Feeling a trifle smug, I asked, “And what do you think of the sweater?”
“Too much play on the yellows. I’d suggest a Goodwill donation.”
“I agree. Chartreuse is fine for a fishing lure, not so much for a sweater.” I figured, this might not be too bad after all: a mite stuffy, even bossy, but with reasonable taste. I turned to leave the kitchen but was halted by the voice.
“Your son said you’re not eating correctly.”
“My son?”
“We chatted before he put me back in the box. Quite a revelation.”
“Do tell.”
“You should eat less sausage, beef and fried foods. More chicken, fish, lean pork, vegetables.”
“I can’t cook some of those things.”
“I can.”
“Um, yeah.” I figured a stalling tactic. First, there was the matter of the Kielbasa. Then I would unplug the machine and stow it in the garage. “I’ll have to make a trip to the store. You know for pork and fish.”
“Not necessary.”
“Hah! You conjure them up from thin air?”
“No.”
“Well then?”
“I’ve placed an order with the supermarket.”
“So now I go pick up whatever it is you’ve ordered?”
“No, a drone will deliver from the warehouse.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought the icebox snickered.
“Gee, that’s swell!” Of course, I was lying.
“We’re almost ready with the medium, lightly charred, Kielbasa here.” The front panel opened and the tray slid out, revealing two beautiful links of perfectly-done Kielbasa.
“Wow! Thank you.” Yes, I immediately felt more than a little foolish. As I stabbed the first sausage, the machine ‘spoke’ again.”
“You’re welcome. Now. About your attitude…”
© spwilcenski 2023
Ramblings 