The Day I Broke Up With My Toaster

All of my street-trash furniture is gone except for this fucking toaster, and I’ll be damned if I just throw it away now. Do you know how much time and money I have invested in this thing?

It was the only thing I had when I moved into my place. That, a loaf of bread, and some of my grandma’s homemade jam. It was sitting on a stoop on the way from the corner shop to my new apartment. The light refleting off the chromed exterior hit me right in the face. When I saw it, there was a “free but needs love” sign tapped on to it.

That night, I had toast for dinner, then slept on a blanket on the floor. The next morning, I had toast for breakfast.

When it broke, I fixed it at home. I still have the scar from a burn on my hand. When a rat chewed up the chord, I took it to the shop and had it repaired. The first time it burnt my toast was when I was late to a job interview. I just had to laugh, me with my “what else could go wrong” mindset.

I had toast every day for breakfast, it was the only meal I had at home in those busy days.

Eventually, I bought new china, new cutlery, all to improve the breakfast experience. But my newly-acquired, prized possession was the coffee maker that had a timer on it. That meant when I woke up in the morning, there was a fresh pot waiting for me in the kitchen. I was so proud of myself for buying an appliance with money I had earned.

The toaster didn’t seem to mind. But it changed. Since the first time I used the toaster, the bread came out evenly toasted and warm, but still a little soft on the inside. Out of nowhere, the toast was either way underdone, or charred.

I took the toaster apart, looking for anything that needed to be fixed, but it was fine. It just didn’t hit the same sweet spot of butter-melting perfection it used to. So, I started trying other types of toast. Pan fried, or in the oven like a croque monsieur, hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I had a cold sandwich.

That was something the toaster could not accept.

It started spitting pieces of bread in my face every time I set foot in the kitchen. If I didn’t eat it, the damn thing would smoke and spark like it was about to explode. One day, I unplugged it. Then it was just sitting there on the counter, the chord reaching toward me, like someone extending a hand, trying to remind me of the good old days.

One morning, as I was trying to enjoy a bowl of cereal, the toaster looked extra shiny. Just sitting on the counter, making me watch my reflection on its faded surface. “Of course I remember those days!” I finally yelled, “It’s the only reason you’re still here! You think I can’t see past all the resentment we’ve built?”

That toaster was the thing that made me happy when I had nothing. Then I grew, my life grew, and that thing that meant so much to me, the only one that had been with me the whole time, refused to accept that there was more to my life than toast.

I couldn’t make it happy. I couldn’t give it the attention it wanted, and I couldn’t just leave it there either. Unplugged, waiting to rust.

I cleaned it, but never used it again. I took it to the shop to make sure it wasn't broken. It was in perfect working condition. It didn’t feel right to sell it, I wanted it to find a new home the same way it came into my life.

I tapped my own sign on it, “free, needs some love”, and left it on the stoop of my building. I never saw my toaster again.