Growing up, one book on my parents’ shelf obsessed my siblings and I above all others. It wasn’t The Joy of Sex, Valley of the Dolls, or Lady Chatterley’s Lover. This work was free of sex, violence, or scandal, but it evoked more gasps than any pulpy paperback. It was *The South African Book of Microwave Cooking—and it was truly shocking.
We spent years poring over it, never tiring of its cornucopias of grey “roast” meats, creamed oysters, and sweaty fish fillets. We grilled my parents about what the “toasted” cheese sandwiches tasted like, fascinated as to why these seemingly functional adults would do something as outrageous as cooking French toast in a microwave.
The gross-out factor was endlessly entertaining. But underneath the comic dry retches, there was something about the book that made me a little sad. It belonged to a part of my mother’s life that felt very far away and strange. A time when she was young, just out of home, freshly married, overwhelmed by adulthood. I pictured her buying the book, comforted by its promise that domestic goddess status could be delivered with the touch of a button, that she could have it all: a happy husband, well-fed kids, a busy career, fabulous friends, and time left over for herself. Decades later, I can’t help feeling it was a promise that went, shall we say, unthawed.
You might think I’m reading too much into a tuna casserole recipe, but microwaves have always represented more than a quick dinner. Since their conception in the 1940s, they have symbolized liberation from the stove. Primarily marketed to women (of course), they suggested that time spent tending pots and pans could now be free to do something more rewarding than making stews and baking pies. It’s not a coincidence that sales spiked in the 1980s as so many women fell under the spell of the decade’s obsession with fulfillment through work. Who has time to roast a leg of lamb when they’re trying to have it all? Easier to just chuck in some mini pizzas and get back to climbing up the corporate ladder.
In that sense, the microwave’s decline shouldn’t be a surprise, either. Their popularity waned as the new millennium saw a growing interest in nutrition, health, and “good” food. The appliance’s post-nuclear age glow didn’t shine so brightly in a world serving up Top Chef marathons and $22 Erewhon smoothies.
My mother might have hoped to power her household with a microwave, but by the time I started my own family, I mostly used mine to reheat leftovers and support the toaster. Any interest in employing it for something more ambitious was dampened by listicles memorializing the disgusting uses to which we once put microwaves or an occasional Gordon Ramsay tirade. But recently, something has shifted. The machine is having a moment. A new generation of chefs and food fans are admitting they love their microwaves without shame.
Take Momofuku founder David Chang, who recently rebranded as “a microwave guy”. His book Cooking At Home: Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying About Recipes (And Love My Microwave) is a long way from The South African Book of Microwave Cooking. Less frazzled mum destroying a steak, more making cacio e pepe with Drew Barrymore.
Once again, the return signals something deeper in our culture than a renewed love of Hot Pockets. In the face of both the cost-of-living and environmental crises, the microwave is an unlikely ally. It’s not a shock to hear that microwaves are more energy efficient than conventional ovens. A 2022 CNET breakdown found that using your microwave for an hour a day “would cost you about half the total energy of a natural gas oven and 60 percent less than an electric oven.” Additionally, the microwave looks good in light of the growing health and environmental concerns surrounding gas stoves—a surprise win for a device that was often, unjustly, declared toxic itself.
Observing all this, I’ll admit that my feelings towards microwave cooking began to soften. I wasn’t in a hurry to nuke a lobster, but I did feel the weight of my ballooning power bill and was open to anything that would save me money. With that in mind, I decided to see if a microwave could transform me into a cash- and time-rich gourmet cook.
I set myself the task of only cooking dinner with my microwave for a week. Hoping to form real habits, I avoided novelty offerings such as mug cakes or anything that seemed needlessly complex or potentially disgusting. Despite Jamie Oliver’s enthusiasm, I would not subject my kitchen to the trauma of microwaving fish. Finally, I didn’t tell my partner; I’m an ardent home cook, and I was interested to see if he would notice the shortcuts I was taking.
On night one of my experiment, I started with something familiar: “baked” potatoes with vegetarian chili. Microwave potatoes are well-known for a reason. Ten minutes on high delivers a chewy skin and fluffy interior. Also, you don’t need to run the oven for an hour. The chili was less exciting. Microwaving onion, garlic, and spices in a little butter felt wrong. And dumping in the beans and tomatoes then zapping them for a few minutes didn’t hold the same satisfaction as gazing into a saucepan. The final product was fine, but without time spent blooming spices, softening onions, and reducing sauce, it was also thinner in texture and taste. Despite my concerns, my partner didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary—immediately alerting me to the fact that, while he always thanks me endlessly for my meals, he might not be totally aware of the effort I put into them.
My second attempt was a more successful vegetable curry. I’d worried this would be a disaster, knowing the magic of Indian food comes from layering flavors and giving them time to develop—two things microwave cooking obliterates. Also, the recipe only asked for a couple of tablespoons of curry powder, with no reference to anything in my lovingly curated spice cupboard. Still, the meal came together quickly and easily. Dressed up with yogurt and a nice chutney, it was a comforting mush. Again, no one but me noticed anything amiss.
Rice is another ingredient microwaves do consistently well, so next I tried a recipe for “fried” rice and miso bok choy. Use of the term fried was generous, it turns out. The reality was regular microwaved rice seasoned with soy sauce and studded with frozen vegetables. Still, again, it was solidly fine and easily tossed together while feeding a baby and answering emails.
My final experiment was risotto. The microwave version took about 15 minutes, not 50, and sacrificed some quality for the sake of that convenience. The meal was gluey, but not totally unpleasant, and I ate it while finishing a TV show I wouldn’t have had time to catch up on if I had been cooking a proper meal, which seemed like a fair trade-off.
While the experiment was broadly positive, there were limitations. Microwaving something for 15 minutes will never return the deep flavors that come from nursing a pot on the stove for an hour. I also missed the ritual of cooking. Staring at a glowing box, wondering “Is that ‘microwave-safe’ bowl about to explode?” isn’t as relaxing as witnessing a pan, laden with molten cheese, crown in the oven.
At the start of the week, I had a basic idea of how the meals and my attitude would evolve. I expected to be frustrated by the results and perplexed by the process. But just as the curry surprised me, so did the reflections the appliance inspired. Researching this piece, and learning how our relationship to microwaves seems to mirror broader global attitudes at any given moment, I couldn’t help but wonder what they represent now.
When the microwave was invented in 1945, it must have felt like a product of its era: a feat of post-war technology, inspired by Second World War radar tech, that became every homemaker’s little helper. Almost 80 years later, our renewed appreciation feels like it’s part of a wider cultural shift—although today the focus is less on how we’re using science and more about how we’re using our precious time. In the 2020s, we’re asking hard questions about labor in all forms: What and who do we work for? What pleasure do we derive from it? Where do we seek and find happiness? Are our efforts always rewarded?
The biggest learning of my week of microwave cooking wasn’t how to adjust the power settings or reduce a sauce. It was about where I put my effort, and what I got back from it. My loved ones always thank me for my meals, but rarely pause to notice if I browned the butter. It would be easy for me to simmer over the slight, but the bitter truth is that no one asked me to do all that. Most people are pretty happy with a microwaved potato.
Perhaps, 30 years later, the microwave is finally delivering on the promises it seemed to hold for my mother. And while I’ll always be the person who browns butter, I appreciate that sometimes I’ll also be the person who microwaves onions and spends an extra 20 minutes on herself.