Six microwaves in seven months

If Svalbard ever goes up in a mushroom cloud, it's a good bet I'll be at Ground Zero.

Something I've done is obviously displeasing the Radiation Gods, because I've been here seven months and now bought six new microwave ovens. Most of them have melted down in a variety of entertaining and/or terrifying ways due to what I can only describe as my anti-Midas touch.

It's not like I'm nuking cans of Spam, live pets or other things that respond poorly to atomic stimulation. I've owned microwaves in other parts of the world for years and can't recall a single one burning out. Nor is it a case of hitting some button at the wrong time, as this chronology shows:

- The first I bought when I spent a few weeks here during the 2008 Polarjazz festival, deciding the cost of cooking in my apartment at the Radisson would be cheaper than eating all my meals out. I left it behind, telling the hotel staff one of them could have it or they could just leave it for future guests. Had I known what was coming several months from then, maybe I'd have stuck it in storage somewhere.

- The second was purchased to replace one at the Galleri Svalbard shortly after I moved here in November of 2008. I touched the door of the microwave in the kitchen of the downstairs studio area and everything went dark. Groping my way around in an attempt to find a circuit box, I thought it was merely a strange coincidence. But when I finally got the lights back on and went back to the kitchen, the microwave was dead as a doornail. While Elise, the owner, was incredibly nice and insistent I not buy a replacement, my guilt (and desire to get a new one quickly) dictated otherwise.

- Microwave three was purchased just before moving into my permanent flat. It did OK for a few weeks, despite a weird tendency to slowly destroy any plastic container put in it. On at least two or three occasions I tried to remove a container of boiling water only to have the bottom of the container fall out. Despite my certainty the microwave would short circuit from the resulting flood, it kept going. Instead, its fate was sealed by a couple of eggs (another item I seem to be cursed with up here) I was trying to poach. One of the yolks exploded and – while I'm new to the concept of egg shrapnel – it turns out to be potent stuff. Bits of yellow and white were impossibly lodged in every tiny ventilation hole possible. After cleaning things as best as possible I fired the oven up again, at which point it gagged on whatever bits had made it well into the circuitry, kicked out a few sparks and died.

- I lived off stovetop cooking for a few days after that because Svalbardbutikken's formerly full shelves of microwaves were empty for some reason (I kept thinking they must be a popular Christmas gift, although I couldn't understand why). But I was headed to Tromsø immediately afterward, where I purchased Fluke Nuke No. 4. It actually fared the best, lasting until two days ago when a dazzling display of sparks suddenly started emitting from the top, followed by that burned-out electrical smell you get when you're trying to make spaghetti in a popcorn machine.

- It was off to Svalbardbutikken yesterday for Oven No. 5, which turned out to have a useful lifespan of about 30 seconds. Almost immediately after firing it up an ear-deafening grinding sounded, causing me to lunge for the "stop" button before the thing turned into an H-bomb. I took a final dare this morning just to make sure it wasn't a fluke and, after about three more seconds of grinding, it quieted down and seemed to function normally – only it wasn't doing anything to generate any heat.

– So I exchanged it for Model No. 6 today, which is now in the trunk of my car unless it's somehow come to life and gone on a joyride.

I suppose smarter people would at some point simply give up and learn how to saute. But I've now got a morbid fascination, plus possibly material for a thesis proving the existence of paranormal activity.

And, yes, I know where my fire extinguisher is.