My mom is a pretty good cook and a darn good baker. She doesn't do it often anymore -- or much when I was growing up, actually -- but when she did cook, we rarely had complaints. However, during Christmas, she turns it up a bit.
I forget what she was making for the family, but I didn't want it. I wasn't real hungry, but she wouldn't quit until she could make something for me. So I just said, "Mom, just make me something simple, then. ... How about a Hot Pocket. Two minutes in the microwave." She agreed.
I went to the dining room to talk with my brother-in-law, and I saw her unwrap the breakfast pocket and put it on a sheet tray. "Mom, two minutes in the microwave. That's it. Two minutes in the microwave." "OK," she said. And I went back to my conversation.
Twenty minutes later, I'd forgotten about my meal. She comes out of the kitchen with food for everyone, including my Hot Pocket, charred on the inside and nearly impenetrable. I looked at my brother-in-law, and he busted up in laughter. I sawed through the concrete pastry, and not once did I think I'd be able to eat this thing.
She came back out and sat down and asked, "So, did I do it right?" My entire family, who had watched me struggle with this 2-by-6-inch brick for the last five minutes, was in stitches. "No, mom," I said. "How long did you cook this?" Twenty minutes in the over," she said. "That's what you told me, right?"
Every Christmas, my brother-in-law asks me if I want a Hot Pocket for breakfast: "Twenty minutes in the oven, right?"
:-\
