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...
