The Great Toaster Incident A true-ish tale of breakfast betrayal and appliance anarchy

It started with toast.

Not just any toast. The perfect slice: golden brown, crispy edges, soft center. The kind of toast you might see on a luxury cruise breakfast buffet. The kind of toast that whispers, “You deserve good things.”

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Because my toaster—an appliance I had owned for three years, trusted with my carbs and my mornings—suddenly turned against me.

It burned the first slice. Okay, fine. That happens. Maybe I pressed the wrong setting. But then it launched the second slice out like it was trying to enter low Earth orbit. I found it behind the microwave, singed and humiliated.

Still, I persisted.

By the fourth slice, the toaster had given up entirely and was just growling. A low, mechanical grumble, like a tired bear with indigestion. The light blinked. The lever stuck. It refused to toast.

I did what any rational adult would do.

I unplugged it. I plugged it back in.

Then I threatened it verbally.

“Don’t test me,” I whispered. “I’ve seen air fryers.”

My roommate, Alex, walked in at that exact moment holding coffee and his phone.

“Are you... threatening the toaster again?”

“No,” I said. “I’m reasoning with it.”

“You need help,” he said, sipping his latte like he was better than me just because his appliances obeyed.

That afternoon, I decided to replace the toaster.

I went online. That was my first mistake.

There are more toaster options in this world than there are stars in the sky. Some had touchscreens. One connected to Wi-Fi. Another had an “Avocado Toast” button, which I still don’t understand. Does it spread the avocado for you? Does it judge you for eating trendy bread?

Eventually, I bought a moderately priced toaster with over 4,000 five-star reviews and a quote in the description that read: “Brings joy back to breakfast.”

I believed in it.

It arrived two days later—sleek, shiny, smelling faintly of ambition. I named it “Toasty.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “You’re naming the appliances now?”

“I’m building trust,” I said.

The first morning with Toasty was magic. The bread went in—two slices of sourdough, side by side like old friends. I adjusted the dial, hit “Start,” and waited.

Three minutes later: toast. Real toast. The kind of toast you write home about. I danced in the kitchen. I gave Toasty a pat. Life was good.

For exactly one week.

Then, during what I now call The Bagel Incident, Toasty betrayed me.

I inserted half a cinnamon raisin bagel and hit “Bagel Mode,” which, according to the manual, was supposed to toast just the cut side. Instead, Toasty toasted both sides—and then refused to release the bagel.

I tugged. Toasty held on. I tugged harder. Toasty sparked slightly. I panicked.

Alex came in.

“What’s burning?”

“Nothing’s burning! I’m just—negotiating with Toasty!”

“Is this because you toasted garlic naan in it yesterday?”

“Toasty liked that naan!”

We managed to free the bagel, but not before the smoke alarm went off and our downstairs neighbor texted:

“Is everything okay? Smells like regret up here.”

That night, I stared at Toasty.

“Why?” I asked. “We had something.”

Toasty blinked its Ready light, cold and silent.

Alex bought a toaster oven the next day.

“Just in case,” he said.

We now have three toasting devices on our counter. The old traitor (unplugged), the new betrayer (under suspicion), and Alex’s smug little toaster oven that looks like it meditates twice a day.

I don’t trust any of them.

I make toast in the oven now. It takes longer, sure—but at least the oven doesn’t pretend to be my friend before holding my bagel hostage.

Moral of the Story:

Never trust something that has a “Bagel Mode.” It probably has secrets.