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The Evil Genius of George Foreman

There are a lot of things that I love about my George Foreman Lean, Mean, Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine.  Or as I call it, the Damn Foreman.  It’s great for the grilled food effect when it’s raining, snowing, or just too darn hot to go outside and fire up the real grill.  Throw on some burgers, some chicken, hot dogs, whatever, and grill away.  Everything cooks doubly fast, since it’s sandwiched between those clever grill plates.  It’s hands-down the best way to cook bacon and it can even be pressed (pressed. ha) into service as a Panini press.  It gives you crispy edges, unlike the microwave.  It whisks away excess fat, unlike a pan.  All in all, it’s just a top-notch way to cook things fast, easy and marginally healthier than normal.

There is one thing that I hate about the Damn Foreman.  Cleaning it.  I hate cleaning this thing so much that I have gone years at a time without owning one because I just couldn’t. take. it. anymore.  I had one for years when they first hit the market and loathed the cleaning process.  I eventually gave up on Foreman, because, even for all of its wonderfulness, it just wasn’t worth it.  Then came something even more wonderful.  A Foreman with removable cooking plates!  Spectacular!  You can soak them!  You can put them in the dishwasher!  You can even change them out and make waffles!

It is not this easy. They’re lying.

Well, of course, I got one of these cutting-edge Foremans.  Guess what I discovered.  Cleaning removable plates sucks about one hundredth of a percent less than cleaning the ordinary plates.  And I got the added bonus of grease somehow working its way under and behind the plates, cooking on, then becoming literally impossible to clean.  Fire hazard, anyone?  And those other plates, like the waffle iron?  Never used them.  Not even once.  Who buys a Foreman to make waffles?  Not this girl.

So, disillusioned, I tossed it (after I somehow melted the cord in an incident that has never been explained or closely examined), and went Foreman-less once again.  There’s a bit of sadness is missing out on a good appliance, but it’s strongly tempered by the knowledge that I don’t ever have to clean the damn thing again. Until.

Hubs announces his desire for a new Foreman for Father’s Day.  It’s Father’s Day, what am I going to do, say no?  If I’d had any foresight, I would have asked for a Foreman-cleaning waiver for Mother’s Day, but alas, I missed my opportunity.  And so here I am once again, with a greasy, sticky, kind of stinky Damn Foreman with all manner of food bits stuck to it waiting on my counter for some attention.  And I’ll clean it.  And I’ll suggest that we cook on it frequently because I do love it.  George Foreman owns me, even against my better judgment and all of my lazy cleaning ways.  Well played, sir.  Well played.


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