Friday, October 14, 2011

Polaroid: Toaster

Sloping arch of chrome and serious black, my retro toaster's lines have curves like a '57 Buick; always at attentive ready stance for whatever I feed its double mouth.

It's like the one from the Dearborn house. Mom would pluck the toast just as it reached a late summer tan color and then punish its perfect surface with cold butter until it was a sorry flat echo of its former self. I didn't really care as long as it still had enough strength to shovel the golden sauce trapped beneath the gossamer surface of my over easy.

I guess that's what was going through my head at the kitchen store the day I bought this thing instead of the sleek plastic toaster. She was on my mind. Her and her Revlon Red nails looking chic as she whipped out food like a short order cook in a belted shirtdress. The sturdy masculine appliance backdrop of the era made her rickrack aprons and spoolie rolled hair seem like a dress up game.

From my place on the bench seat I could watch the kitchen drama reflected in our old mirrored toaster. Practicing my spy skills, I would keep my head turned and still slap a hand that tried to steal my bacon.

Now, I see my dog reflected next to me and shake off the reverie. How long have I been standing at the toaster this time, lost in a long gone morning when a Jack was in the Whitehouse and my mother's voice was so much more than faded memory?
And that's what you write BEFORE you have your morning coffee, and after four hours of sleep because a family of raccoons decided to hold a rave outside your window all night long...