When my grandfather passed away, I inherited from his attic a 1950s toaster. It’s a beautiful piece of mod, all chrome and curvy with a cloth cord that looks strikingly like an electric guitar cable. Its legacy is incomplete – my father remembers it present in their home, and then in someone’s dorm room, likely before university regulations filtered out the various fire hazards one could bring onto institutional grounds.
But, you may ask, does the vintage toaster make toast? It makes the hell out of toast, hellfire and brimstone to be exact. You insert your carefully carved piece of homemade bread, which just barely fits into the slot no matter how you cut it. Turn the dial to “light”. Become distracted by your toddler pouring his milk on the hardwood floor, and then you’re crunching into a week’s worth of carbon. A briquette.
Dishwashers are for turning on and getting other things done; don’t try to multitask while the the toaster toasts. Stand over it hawkishly, admire its beauty. Gaze at your distorted, sleep disheveled reflection in its curvaceous side. Empty the exquisite crumb tray. Enjoy the odor of blackened grains now wafting through your home, because you let your mind wander for just a single moment.
But for heaven’s sake, don’t leave it plugged in when you’re not around.
