Everyone has their set of special skills.

Some of us possess skills the world isn’t ready for. We’re misunderstood—unappreciated, even. We are Superman.

One of my special skills happens to be setting things ablaze burning things in our indoor, square fire-pit. Normal people call it a microwave.

I burn popcorn.

It’s gotten so that I’ve grown accustomed to the familiar bitter, yet satisfying, crunch of a fluffy, freshly singed popcorn kernel.

That’s good eatin’.

Maybe it’s all microwaves, bonding together against me as payback.

I seem to recall a fried, sour gummy-straw incident of 2005.

My older brother and I were trying to make drinkable sour apple goo (an idea that sounds blow-your-mind amazing to this day). We ended up smoking the little sucker, and my brother dared me to eat it anyway.

So I did, like a 10-year-old champion. I was sick for a week. Every time I passed the kitchen and got a hint of fried worm smell, my stomach turned.

But hey. That earned my big brother’s R.E.S.P.E.C.T. I’m noo sissy.

Fast foreward to a week ago. My mom bought Chips Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies, and I thought, how incredible would these be if they were soft and warm?

This idea was fantastic. I placed two cookies on a napkin and popped them in the microwave for a few seconds.

… Have you ever physically seen a cookie’s spirit ascend into eternity?

They were piping hot, making me incredibly pleased with myself and my foreward-thinking brain. But one cookie was dead. I knew it was dead. I heard the trumpet call. The rifles fired. The other cookie was sobbing into a handkerchief.

The cookie was dead.

Upon examination, it appeared that the one cookie may have caught fire in the center and burned itself out. It was black and hard. I ate around that part.

My little brother complained for days that the house smelled like murdered cookie.

I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve heard the cries of cookies/popcorn/sour worm’s past.

It was a typical Thursday night. I just picked up some Starbucks and wanted something salty to eat along with it. So I made some popcorn.

I never heard the popping. I didn’t even see the smoke before it was too late.

The kitchen was THICK with gray smoke. I couldn’t breathe. I ran around the house, coughing and opening windows. My eyes burned. Through my tears, I caught sight of the dog, staring up at me with his big brown eyes.

He kept sneezing, forcing breath out his little nose, and watching me. If he could speak, it was as if he was saying, so, this is the end?

I quickly escorted him outside.

The bag of popcorn was black, gray smoke billowing from the tear in its side.

This happened three days ago.

The house still smells like burnt popcorn, the microwave even more so.

So, I may have a problem—or a gift, depending on how you see it.

Though, I would think twice if you asked me to heat something up in your microwave.

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UPDATE: Contrary to popular opinion, I did not KILL the microwave. It still works.

It has been 3 weeks. Our house finally doesn’t smell of burnt popcorn, but if you ever warm up your coffee or melt cheese on chips, the evidence will waft up to your nose in a microwave’s warning cry of food comes here to die!

THIS POST IS DEDICATED TO MY BIG BROTHER ON HIS BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ISAIAH! MAY GOD BLESS YOU IN THE YEARS TO COME AND CONTINUE TO PROTECT AND GUIDE YOU. I’M SO THANKFUL TO HAVE A BIG BROTHER LIKE YOU IN MY LIFE, AND I’VE GOT YO BACK (WHETHER IT BE EATING SOUR STRAWS OR STRAIGHTENING OUT BULLIES!) ‘TIL THE END.

Love, Rebekah. (Prov. 3:5)