Left on my own for dinner tonight, I found a microwavable chicken breast in the freezer.

It had a lot of complicated instructions about setting the microwave at 50 percent power (good luck with that — I spent 15 minutes today in a failed effort to reset the clock after falling back), adding water, covering with saran wrap and peeling back the corner. Yeah, right. You think cavemen set the fire for 50 percent? I’m hotwired to scorch.

So being a guy, I just tossed it in the microwave and set it for 7 minutes. Seven minutes later, still cold. After cooking it for an addition seven minutes (an arbitrary figure that in hindsight was likely overly ambitious), I found that someone had replaced the chicken breast with what appeared to be a small child’s sneaker. Parts were still a little damp but not too bad.

Luckily I know one of life’s Great Truths: Anything can become edible if you dump enough Stubb’s barbecue sauce on top of it.

Not bad at all. An hour later, I’m still not dead.

I may have to go digging in the freezer for that other sneaker …