I was watching TV the other night.

I watch TV at night because it’s less tiring than getting dressed and going somewhere, and less tiresome than doing nothing at all.

But not much less.

A commercial came on touting a new miracle product. In the run-up to Christmas there are lots of miracle products available on TV. I know, because I’ve bought a few.

I have a garden hose that’s really small until you turn the water on, and then it gets really big. Although vaguely miraculous to observe, that transformation does nothing to enhance the hose’s capacity to convey water. The commercial convinced me to order the amazing expanding hose with the promise that when I wasn’t using it to convey water I could store it in a coffee can, or a desk drawer, or a CD case, or some other unlikely space where I might not otherwise think to store a garden hose. The claim turned out to be true enough, but not as personally fulfilling as I had imagined, and I’m just as happy to dump that technological marvel in a tangle under the deck next to the tangle of non-expanding hoses.

I also have a space-age meatloaf pan. I already had plenty of meatloaf pans, but was seduced by the ad’s fast talk and slick production values. This particular meatloaf pan comes with a perforated insert that allows fats and juices to drain out during cooking, and features handles so you can quickly and easily lift the finished meatloaf out of the meatloaf pan and dump it unceremoniously onto a serving dish. In the course of a one-minute commercial they dumped out a meatloaf that way at least 10 times – once every 5 seconds, more or less – so there could be no doubt as to the quickness or ease of the dumping. The tumbling meatloaves were very telegenic, and I bought two because I only had to pay shipping and handling on the second one, and, well, I eat a lot of meatloaf.

The pans worked perfectly as advertized. For perhaps two happy months I tumbled, and tumbled again, decanting healthy, heart-smart loaves to the admiration and satisfaction of everyone fortunate enough to join me at table. They are everything I ever wanted in a meatloaf pan, and yet, for deep psychological reasons I fear to explore, whenever I make meatloaf these days I reach for the oldest vessel in my fleet, a scratched and dented old battlewagon that collects grease like a commissioner’s palm and jealously hangs onto its contents with an iron grip.

I’m complicated.

I might mention that, by “acting now”, I also received a free gift. It’s a meatloaf knife, which highly specialized cutting tool features a secondary blade parallel to the first that can be adjusted to yield perfect meatloaf slices of any thickness desired. In practice, I could probably carve a meatloaf more efficiently – and more neatly – with an eggbeater. I haven’t thrown that useless instrument away, though.

It came with the pans.

I don’t share this information to elicit scorn, but rather to foster understanding. Like all primates, I possess a capacity to learn, and for the past couple of years I’ve successfully resisted those breathless come-ons punctuating my evening stories. From late November to Jan. 1, through acute mental discipline and supreme force of will, I am able to screen out those maniacally enthusiastic pitches, relaxing my vigilance only when the purveyors of Valentine’s Day start dialing up the heat.

And that’s when they got me.

Just hours after I’d deactivate my crap-filter for the season, the makers of the Stone Wave Ceramic Microwave Cooker launched a second wave of TV advertizing. The purportedly miraculous Stone Wave cooker is a hand-sized faux-stoneware crock with a cute little handle and a purportedly miraculous hole, er, chimney in the lid that, I am led to believe, allows pressure and what appear to be evil spirits to escape while locking in flavor. The commercial is a nice piece of small-screen cinema, with free-flowing red arrows surrounding the entrée, dessert, or festive snack in a multi-pronged attack reminiscent of Napoleon’s advance against General von Melas’ entrenched Austrian forces at Marengo, and we all know how deliciously that turned out. Harnessing the awesome power of microwaves, the Stone Wave is designed to cook all manner of tasty dishes in five minutes or less, and its patented non-stick coating makes clean-up a snap.

A snap!

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m lazy, and so a tireless champion for microwave cookery. They’ll also tell you I hate to clean up things including, but not limited to, my hard-drive, my language and my act. Even so, I was immediately underwhelmed by Stone Wave’s obvious attractions for one simple reason – alone or in pairs, I just don’t do dinner-for-one.

With a potentiality just 12 ounces strong, the Stone Wave is a one-course wonder. Sure, you can make a three-egg omelet in it, but what of hash browns? What of bacon? And what’s breakfast without an English muffin? Or four? The ad shows an unwholesomely excited woman making a rich, chocolate cake right in her microwave, which would be great except it’s a really just a fluffy, unfrosted cookie that you have to eat with a fork. How is that simpler?

General von Melas

“Make French Onion Soup in minutes!” I don’t care if it takes only seconds – 12 ounces of onion soup is vegetarian au jus waiting for a nice brisket to come along. There’s even a meatloaf recipe that starts with a quarter pound of ground beef. I don’t eat anything that weighs a quarter pound, unless it’s the cheese on my half-pound bacon-burger. No, the Stone Wave Microwave Cooker clearly doesn’t offer the scope I look for in kitchenware.

On the other hand, it is a good-looking accessory, snug in the hand, easy to store, and the hole, er, chimney in the lid is “scientifically designed.” And then there are those evil spirits to think about. They could be causing the mild distress I sometimes experience after single-handedly accounting for a pound-and-a-half of Kansas City-style barbecued spare ribs. I’m not a superstitious man, but I won’t tolerate demons in my food if there’s a really easy way I can help it.

I ordered two.

The second one was free for an additional shipping and handling charge.

Damn TV.