Eating my Words, Not my Toast

This is a story about a time when I got to eat my words instead of my toast. Eating my words, not my toast. Good times. So happy I got brunch instead.

eating my words not my toast

Eating my words isn’t something I love doing but it’s a pretty good story so I’ll share my shame. Enjoy

This weekend my sister spent the night at my new place. Although I’m not well stocked for guests yet, I did try to brew coffee in my grandma’s old coffee maker and make toast with cheddar cheese for breakfast in my new toaster oven.

It was pretty exciting to use a new appliance and as I shut the glass door I announced, “I’m so happy to make toast for the first time!”

Leaving the oven to do its business, I walked out of the kitchen and started chatting at my sister. It wasn’t more than a couple minutes later a loud POP came from the direction of the toast.

“What was that?” My sister didn’t say or do anything but I managed to close my gaping mouth and dart back into the kitchen.

Smoke was pouring out of the toaster oven. After checking for fire I reached over and unplugged the appliance. Confused, I opened the glass door, turned on the fan and got my sister to open the sliding door. Then I remembered the smoke alarm and ran over to fan it. Just in case.

After I was certain there would be no alarm sounding, I crept back towards the scene to investigate. Yeah, I was a regular CSI.

My first query: Is the toast edible?

We determined, no. It was not edible and was probably poisonous. While the toast wasn’t burned (or really even warm), there was a layer of white powder all over the bread. When the element exploded, it released a ton of the powder everywhere. In fact, that might have been what was pouring out of the oven when I first stepped into the kitchen.

Regardless, there was something seriously wrong. I looked at my sister, a little distressed, and asked how my life could possibly continue to be filled with irony.

Why did I have to announce that it was my first time making toast?

I’m just setting myself up for random combustion.

“At least the coffee worked out,” my sister said, trying to find the positive side of things. “And I still owe you a birthday brunch.”

“I think today is the day,” I said sadly. We left the kitchen—bread, powder and all—and went out for brunch.

Later in the afternoon my dad stopped by and I asked him to decide whether the toaster oven was doomed. One look at the bent elements and random springs hanging at odd angles and he confirmed my suspicion that its future would never include toast.

Or mine, it would seem.

This is a story about a time when I got to eat my words instead of my toast. Eating my words, not my toast. Good times. So happy I got brunch instead.

More awesome food-related posts (nothing about eating my words). They’re actually all cookbook reviews