I know, I know. I owe you an apology. It all falls on you, doesn’t it? The whole thing is on your shoulders. It’s not fair. There’s not even a microwave to fall back on. Just you, a lone stainless steel pot, forced to be the sole workforce for every meal of ramen noodles, soup, stew, or any other simple, one step meal that you’re required to cook. It’s not your fault, really. You certainly didn’t choose to end up in the hands of a culinary-inept post-college student who irresponsibly hurled himself at an expensive city with no mind to his resources. Certainly not. That’s just the way the dice shook out.
But you do it without a single complaint. That’s what I like about you. Unwavering resilience despite overwhelming odds. First you heat the water, then the spaghetti, then the sauce. All without a moment’s rest. You even warm the bread, an event the oven itself would be just fine to do. It would be well within your right to scoff, to let a bit of a chuckle sneak through when you’re asked for the millionth time to heat up water for coffee, despite being a mere three inches from a machine designed for that very purpose. Or when yet another wrapper of pre-packaged noodles is cracked open. But there’s never a reaction. Never a smirk. Nothing but a steel rim with faded blue paint to make another meal for this chef forever plagued with the cooking talents of an undergraduate freshmen hiding an illicit George Foreman grill under his bunk and throwing caution to the wind.