Dad ate breakfast every morning at 6 am and the Toaster oven was his best buddy.
It always had his back.
He ate toast - white , never whole wheat - and added butter - never margarine - and lots of coffee.
For Lunch on the weekends it was toast and cheese and cervalot. (Fat and fat and fat, but cervalot has beef fat mixed with garlic so it was extra tasty. A kind of kosher German wurst that was really a heart attack in a casing. You lost years off your life, but at least every moment was flavorful.)
This toaster oven was his main co-hort at every morning and every weekend meal. It was always perched on the table to his left, always at the ready. We smelled toast once a day on the weekdays and twice a day on the weekends. And he toasted 'till it charred. Just like he grilled. Mixed with cigarette smoke, (Kents, do they even sell these anymore?), it was comforting to know that Dad was in the kitchen and all was on schedule.
Until the day the toaster oven went up in flames! The plug started sparking in the socket and then it became great licks of red/yellow/blue flames edging up to the table (wood with a nice layer of shellac) and almost to his pant legs. Even the dog started barking in fear.
Dad kept on eating his toast.
Perhaps the mix of cigarette smoke and char distorted his sense of smell and his eyesight was not so sharp, either.
When the dog started barking, Mom came into the kitchen and started screaming.
After some fumbling with the fire extinquisher, some baking soda and a lot of hystrionics, the flames were put out and it was decided that breakfast was over.
Dad had finished his toast and went off to work. He put the toaster oven in the basement, thinking he would fix the cord, Mom went off to Korvettes to buy a new one knowing that the cord would never be fixed and if it was, it would go up in flames again.
Many years later, we threw out the toaster oven, and thought it was fortunate that he hadn't burned down the house that day. Little did we know that Mom's turn was coming.
