William Shakespeare

air fryers

To air fry or not to air fry, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the kitchen to suffer the stings and splatters of hot oil or to take arms against a sea of cooking methods and by opposing air fry them. To cook, to fry no more, and by a fryer to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural woes that food is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To cook, to fry. To fry, perchance to eat. Ay, there's the rub. For in that air fryer of death, what dreams may come when we have sausages on our plates, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of such long cooking times. For who would bear the whips and scorns of conventional frying, the oppressor's oily spatter, the proud man's scorn, the pangs of burning oil, the law's delay, the insolence of cooks, and the spurns that lack of ventilation draws, when he himself might his cuisine make with a mere flick of a switch? Who would bear the tedious wait times and temperature checks, to grunt and sweat under a wearying stove? But that the dread of something after frying, the undiscovered palette from whose bourn no taste returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the natural awe of air fryers is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of skepticism. But soft, what light through yonder countertop breaks? It is the east, and the air fryer is the sun. Arise, fair appliance, and kill the envious glare of fiery cooking methods with thy radiant splendor!