My toaster wore out; no, it broke, a few weeks ago. I donated it and they could sell it for junk metal. It’s nice to have the space clear on the cupboard counter. Of course, keeping it clear could be a challenge.
A friend back home used to yell at family members for cluttering, but cleared space is so inviting and hers was extensive. Same at home at the lake on a bench in the kitchen: everything landed there and in a big drawer just underneath. Both a bit messy, but we could find almost anything there. Now, mine is not so extensive and I must guard it. Against whom, pray tell? Well, myself.
Anything that breaks or fails to function goes into the car and then back to the store of origin, with hopes of a refund or store credit. When the purchase was recent, the sales slip goes with it. But when did I buy the toaster? Five years ago? Probably more. A warranty, usually for a year, even 30 days, would not help.
Anyhow, no warranty makes the item dunce-proof or idiot-proof. I put in small pieces of bread and narrow strips of bagels, and they slipped through to the bottom. The previous toaster I could open up on the bottom, but this one was a sealed unit, barring rescue of these bits of nourishment.
So who needs a toaster? A woman I know never uses one, but she rarely eats any form of bread. She was vegan for years, then added meat and dairy, but no bread with anything. Probably because wheat turns to sugar and sugar to fat. She is thin.
I went to the basement and brought up a little top-of-the-stove cooker or oven, which I put on a stove burner, then added three strips of bagel, turned on the burner and went down the two steps to my workroom to get a card into the mailbox ahead of the mailman. Next thing I knew, smoke. Never before had any steam or smoke set off two alarms, one in the little hallway below the kitchen, the other in the front hall at the foot of the stairs. I quickly removed the toast — no, blackened bread.
Could this predicament have been predicted when I received a free gift? A bakery-cafe near home, one of a national chain, awarded me a free bagel daily for an entire month. Free is free, so I dutifully appeared every day to take the little brown bag. “Sliced? Buttered? Butter in with it?” “No, thank you,” to each inquiry. Once home, I cut each one up and put it into the freezer.
When I have finished them off, I may think about replacing the toaster. Meanwhile, with the top-of-the-stove gadget, who needs a toaster? Clearly, someone like yours truly who would leave food on the stove unattended.
Byrna Porter Weir was born and grew up in Houlton, where her parents were portrait photographers. She now lives in Rochester, N.Y.
