Kitchen Oddity

“Wake me up, before you—"

Groan. I forgot to turn off my automatic alarm. You’d think it’d be easy to set it up so it would only go off on weekdays to let me sleep in on weekends, but evidently not. I ventured a single appendage out from under the comforter to turn off the alarm on my phone, making a mental note to delete this “wake-up music” alarm app—the music they choose may be great for my parents, but in the month I’ve tried it, there has not been a single song that was written in my lifetime.

           Finally, my finger connected with the stop button, and I relished the silence, though it was short-lived.

           “IT’S SATURDAY!!!” squealed Hally, as she took a running leap onto my bed—and me.

           “Get off, Hal!” I said, annoyed, and rolled over.

           She pouted and crossed her arms. “You’re no fun anymore,” she whined as she made her way out of my room. Once I was sure she was gone, I rolled back over with a sigh. I looked up at the ceiling where a few glow-in-the-dark stars still remained—most had fallen years ago only weeks after putting them up. I should make it up to Hal, I thought. Maybe I’ll make her some fluff toast.

           I dragged myself out of bed and headed down the hall to the kitchen. Hally had already made herself comfortable on the couch with Eva, her stuffed—well, actually, I have no idea what it is—watching cartoons.

           “Mom and Dad aren’t up yet,” said Hally quietly, eyes still glued to the screen. The tone of her voice led me to suspect they also didn’t react kindly to being woken up by being assaulted by a flying child. At least my negligence in turning off my alarm made the ordeal less startling.

           “You hungry?” I asked, “I thought I might make some fluff toast.”

           The cartoons had just broke to commercial, and Hally turned to me with huge eyes and a grin to match. “Really? That sounds super amazing goooooooood!” she sang. “Fluff toast, fluff toast, fluffy, fluffy, fluff TOOOOOOOAAAAAST!!!” she started doing a strange little dance around the living room as she sang, plopping back down to the couch when she was done.

           I laughed, “Sure thing, Hal,” I said, patting the top of her head in joking condescension. She made a face, but was quickly distracted by the return of her cartoons. “Coming right up.”

           I walked into the kitchen and pulled out all the supplies I would need: bread (the buttermilk loaf, not the gross health-nut stuff my parents tried to get us to eat. The fact hat we had two kinds of loaves proved they didn’t much like the healthy stuff either), marshmallow fluff, Nutella, and cinnamon sugar.

           I had come up with this concoction last summer, digging through our pantry craving smores, but not having the right ingredients. I found the marshmallow fluff and Nutella, and it all just clicked in my head. Sometimes that happened to me, I just randomly thought of food combinations I hadn’t heard before and tried it. It’s not always a hit, but more often than not, it tastes pretty good. I sometimes thought I might go into the culinary arts.

           I laid out all my ingredients and turned to the toaster. The toaster! I’d forgotten that our beloved, beat-up, thirty-something year-old toaster had finally kicked the bucket, and my parents had bought a replacement. Not just any toaster though, this was a smart toaster, because apparently everything these days has to connect to wifi and be Bluetooth enabled, or whatever. I sighed, feeling a little nostalgic for our dented, simplistic old toaster.

           Despite being the typical video-gaming teenage boy, I actually prefer older technology, though I’d never admit it publicly. I’d much rather play old school games like Mario Brothers or even old Atari games to the latest first-person shooter. And despite having a smartphone, I really didn’t see the point in having everything connected. Heck, even our washer and dryer were Bluetooth enabled. Why? I still have to go physically move my clothes from one to the other, so why not just used the buttons on the thing itself? And what kind of fancy function no one actually uses would necessitate Bluetooth on a freaking toaster?

           I grabbed the toaster and plugged it in. The display lit up blue, indicating it was on. I put in three slices of bread, and pushed the button for toast.

           The display changed to red and read Err.

Weird, I thought, I wonder if there’s something I forgot to do. I hit cancel, and the display turned blue again. I moved the slices of bread around, thinking that maybe this was one of those toasters that had one slot that had to be used to function properly. I pushed the Toast button, and again, the display turned red with the same error message.

Ok, weird. I wonder if it I can get it to work with my phone? I tried one more time, this time using the app on my phone. Again, the display turned red with the same error message.

“What the heck,” I said out loud. I unplugged the machine and counted to ten (I figured if it’s good enough to fix issues with routers, then surely it’s good enough for a stupid toaster), and tried again.

Same thing.

“ARGH!” I exclaimed, pounding the counter to keep myself from hurling the offending appliance. I never thought I would so desperately miss our old, dented toaster.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hally as she wandered into the kitchen with Eva under her arm.

“Can’t get the stupid toaster to work,” I replied.

She looked up at me like I was an idiot. “It’s a toaster, Dave” she said slowly, as if to further prove her point I lacked intelligence, “How hard can it be?”

“I know,” I said, exasperated, “but it just keeps coming up with this error message. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Let me try,” she said, determinedly. She plugged the toaster back in, hit the toast button, and—

“It worked!” I said, incredulously. “But I did the same thing multiple times and it wouldn’t work for me.” I frowned.

Hally grinned, “ Maybe it just doesn’t like you,” and she stuck her tongue out at me before running around to the other side of the counter to avoid my swinging arm.

“Dave, don’t hit your sister, “Mom said disinterestedly, then looked at the ingredients I had lined up on the counter. “Oooh, fluff toast, eh? Could you make me a slice too, dear?”

“What’s this about fluff toast?” asked Dad, shuffling into the kitchen still rubbing his eyes. “Count me in.”

Just then, the original three slices popped up and the display read Done. I pulled out the bread and began assembling the fluff toast: first Nutella, then fluff, then a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. I handed a plate of fluff toast to each member of my family, and went to make more for myself.

Once again, as I tried to toast two more slices (I am a teenage boy after all), I got another red display error notice.

I growled as pulled out my phone again to check the app, thinking maybe there was a more detailed error message there.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Mom asked in between bites of fluff toast.

Before I had a chance to reply, Hally chimed in with her mouth full of food, “The toaster doesn’t like him.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mom said in automatic reply.

As I opened the app, I did see a more detailed message, but one that left me even more confused than before.

“What the hell?” I said.

“Language!” replied Mom.

“What’s going on, Sport?” Dad asked, coming over to see what was wrong, having already wolfed down his toast.

“The toaster really doesn’t like me” I said quietly. Hally giggled until Mom gave her a warning look.

“Don’t be silly, what does your phone say?” Dad asked.

“It says ‘I’m sorry, Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I answered.

Dad laughed, “What, like the movie?” Not knowing what he was talking about, I showed him my phone so he could see for himself. He stopped laughing, and his face went white. He said slowly, “How does it know your name?”

We all turned to look at the toaster, still glowing an ominous red.

“Maybe we should take it back,” said Mom, still eyeing the toaster warily.

“Yes, that’s probably best,” said Dad quietly, having lost his normal jovial tone. He reached to unplug the toaster.

“Wait!” I yelled, stopping Dad in his tracks. The toaster still glowed red. Everyone stared at me. “Two requests.”

My parents looked at each other, then nodded for me to continue.

I took a breath, “First, can we please get a stupid toaster this time?”

They nodded, “Of course,” Mom said, “I think that’s wise. What else?”

I looked at them sheepishly, feeling a little guilty for asking, when my stomach rumbled. “Could someone please toast me two slices before we chuck this thing?”

Just then the toaster’s red display started pulsating. I looked at the app on my phone again, Dad looking over my shoulder, where it read in all caps this time:

I’M SORRY, DAVE, I’M AFRAID I CAN’T DO THAT

Hally was clutching Eva and cowering behind Mom, who was looking desperately at Dad to do something. Dad reached over and unplugged the toaster quickly. “Sorry Dave, I’m afraid we can’t do that. The toaster is going NOW.” And he held it as far away from his body as he could, as he walked out of the house.