I’m on the road today, heading to meetings in the Great White North. Even if I didn’t know I was in Canada, though, I’d still be able to make a pretty good educated guess about my location based on this shelf in the airport convenience store.
Notice a theme here? It’s all things maple — but does anybody really want maple-flavored caramels?
By law, every American office must have a microwave in a common area that is made available to all employees. Any office worker will concede that the zone around that microwave is a crucial part of the rich tapestry of their work space.
Educated noses in the office can learn a lot from the smorgasbord of scents in the microwave zone. Is that the heady aroma of maple that I detect wafting from some mid-morning oatmeal that will linger, cloyingly, for an hour or more? My God, has Jim reheated that pungent fish and rice dish again? And how about the subtly nuanced aroma of blended chemical preservatives that floods the area whenever a frozen entree is zapped? The welcome dinging of the microwave timer acts like the bell Pavlov used with his dog, and summons the office epicures to revel in the sight and smell of whatever appetizing radiated fare is removed from the pristine microwave chamber.
The delightful experience is compounded when reusable microwave dishes are left to soak in the sink below the microwave. Each has the unmistakable pink smear of sauce residue that has been permanently bonded to the plastic by countless doses of radiation, thereby allowing the diner to enjoy the taste of all previous reheated meals along with whatever he has chosen as today’s sustenance.
Curiously, on our floor the microwave is positioned directly across from the door to the men’s restroom.