A smoky haze filled the dining room.
But it wasn’t my first sign that something was burning. The acrid odor wafted up the stairwell.
But naturally, the smoky haze had me concerned.
“What’s burning?” I asked my grandmother when I stepped into the kitchen.
She stood at the toaster. Around it was… something. “Nothing’s burning,” she said.
“Something’s burning,” I said. “I can smell it.”
I took a look at what was around the toaster. It wasn’t bread. It was… a roll?
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m making toast.”
“Why aren’t you using bread?”
“Rolls work. I just have to cut them.” In her hand was part of a dinner roll, and it was charred black. Scattered about the toaster were other parts of the roll. Some were large chunks. Some were not. Some was still in the toaster. And it was burning.
My grandmother doesn’t make toast. She burns toast.
She likes her toast, well, toasted.
But she’s not aware of just how toasted her toast is. It’s not toasted enough the first time through. So she toasts it again. And again. It’s only when it’s charred black, to the point where its odors are toxic, that she realizes her toast is done.
Only, her toast this time wasn’t toasted bread. It was a toasted roll. And it wouldn’t come out of the toaster.
I should drop that toaster in the garbage. Before she burns the house down with it.