Because my toaster

Toast is a very versatile vehicle for a vast variety of victuals. The process of toasting bread is pretty straightforward. A toaster isn’t a complicated appliance. Regular sliced bread goes in a regular sized toaster. Thicker breads go into a toaster oven. Push the button. Don’t touch the hot metal. Wait for bread to pop out. Slather, pile, or dunk as desired.

Today started out well enough. Had I stayed in bed, it would have gone great. However, I’m told it’s necessary to make my incomparable contribution to society. Get out of bed, they said. You’ll feel better, they said. Have breakfast. Most important meal of the day! I rumbled into the kitchen, opened the bread bag and found only 4 slices left – two of which were ends. No crisis there. I dropped my non-ends (early bird/worm) into the toaster, pushed down the lever, got out the butter and knife, and waited. I went over my plans for the day while I watched tiny wisps of steam escape from the bread.

I breathed in motes of nutty crustiness, and anticipated the triumphant extraction of golden-brown crispness. I heard the pop, and moved swiftly to remove the slices while they retained enough heat to melt the butter. I recoiled in horror as my fingertips grazed over the pale, raw landscape that marred what would have been the perfect start to the day. My bread hadn’t gone through the magical transformation into toast. The coils died somewhere between pushing the button and it popping back up.

It was prophetic. Today, I’m pseudo toast. Toast from a broken toaster. Broken toaster toast. A ghost of toast. I’m not real toast.


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