As I put the doughnut into the microwave, I reminded myself of a previous experience of overheating. I’d walked into the staffroom where the rest of the staff were indulging in the last of a plateful of warm and wonderful jam doughnuts, the heat from the microwave nicely stodgifying the dough and gently warming the jam to create a confection of the gods, perfect to warm the cockles of the heart of any poor teacher coming in from playground duty in the middle of winter. Finding one last doughnut in the pack which had not yet been warmed and eaten (a miracle in itself), I asked how long they’d put them in the microwave for. “Oh, a couple of minutes” came the reply. Of course, I failed to enquire whether they were referring to a single doughnut or the plateful of about thirty doughnuts that had been shared amongst them already. Suffice to say, Vesuvius had nothing on the contents of the doughnut I was then foolish enough to try to eat. Luckily the burst of piping hot steam warned me of the eruption of boiling red lava to come and I moved the doughnut away just in time.
A memory, you’d say, that was branded on my brain (if not my tongue), never to be forgotten.