Ode to a Toaster

THOU still unravish'd bride of breakfast
Thou foster-child of Bagel and Defrost
Able appliance, who canst thus toast
A perfect morsel crispier than sheer moisture lost

Suck it Keats. Who need ramble on the paradoxes of life and art when I have found the perfect toaster? Why expound on the paradox of dynamic life captured in a still vase when the Ideal Bagel hath graced thou'st breakfast plate?

This is my post on toast. 'Tis a toasty post, if you will.

I am still young. I have yet to experience much of the joys and sorrows of life. I have not found the depths of human love or the bitterness of piercing remorse. I live an innocent existence and burn holes in tables for the sake of s'mores.

I fell in love. My heart took off as if my chest were the Audubon. Breathing was so difficult I needed a protocol. I could not peel my eyes away from its sleek lines, shiny facade, and simple user display. Epiphany uncloaked itself in my perfectly toasted bagel.

Hyperbole, you question? Maybe. I care more about this toaster more than any baby I have ever seen. I like this toaster more than I like puppies. Puppies are pretty cool.

(picture from http://www.cuisinart.com/products/toasters/cpt-160.html)

The Cuisinart CPT-160 Metal Classic 2-slice toaster is cooler. It is simple in design. No fancy gadgets; it does not pretend it can reheat your pizza, cook your dinner, and wash the dishes, like other taosters. Nay, it knows that it can toast, and toast it does well. It's peers tell us that number 4 gives brown toast, but 4 in average-toaster speak = "burnt" This toaster does no such thing. Turn it to 4 and your toast is brown. Turn it to six and it is dark. Turn it to 1 and you wasted your time.

Why the declaration of affection? I adore carbs. I love toast. I worship bagels. Even when I was running six miles a day and living off vegetables and lean protein, I still had a toasted bagel every day. When I'm too lazy to cook, I live off toast and peanut butter.

Unfortunately for my diet, I have favored the latter lifestyle as of late. My advisor buying htis toaster for the lab chained me to the bench better than anything else: I'm convinced that I can pick up a dozen bagels at a local shop and move in for days.


Of course, it is also fun to dress toast up a little. Summer in California means all produce is fresh and cheap. I love adding romatina tomatoes and fresh basil to my morning bagel. My roommates STILL call me a food snob even though I have been living off toast for days. I'm not sure how that works.


My current favorite toasted treat is whole-grain bread with fresh avocado, baby heirloom taomatoes, and grated parmesan cheese. Avocados are like butter right now, and they are for once, affordable. Baby heirlooms bring out hidden girlishness. I would dropkick a small dog in a purse, but I happily coo over tiny tomatoes. They are so cute!! Ahem.


Anyway, my lab also thought this was overly fancy, but it took no time, and cost less than a boring sandwich. Better yet, it was filling and vegetarian, allowing omnivore and Berekley to live together in harmony.


Soft breads are sweet, but those toasted
Are sweeter; therefore, ye badass toaster
Toast on.


Favorite breakfast bagel

Poppy seed bagel
plain cream cheese
fresh basil
2-3 romatina tomatoes (cherry or grape also great)

slice tomatoes, tear/chiffon basil.

Toast bagel, spread with cream cheese, lay down tomatoes, top with basil


Avocado toast with baby heirloom tomatoes and Parmesan cheese

Whole grain bread
1 ripe avocado, sliced
1 c baby heirloom tomatoes, halved
fresh basil
parmesan cheese

Toast bread. Lay down avocados, then tomatoes. Sprinkle with basil and cheese.

Vuvuzela Warfare

My mornings have ceased to exist. I scribble this now; dashing off a few lines during a brief moment of peace. It is the breath of calm in a storm Charybdis herself could not comprehend. For the first time in almost a month, there has not been soccer all morning long.

Thank goodness the world cup lasts only a month--much longer and society would devolve into hitting each other with sticks.

This tourney has been full of interesting calls and raging let-downs: it is as if western Europe forgot how to play soccer. Thank goodness for the Spanish, Dutch, and Germans or the cup should be called "Americas and random Asia-Pacific Cup". It is amusing to watch the media turn so quickly on its idols. I guess if you play like a tsetse fly bit you on the ass, the papers have to make news out of something.

Of course, I'm brokenhearted that the US lost to Ghana again. Bigger issues lie at hand, however. Both fans and players in the US must learn consistency. 1) the US team must learn that there are NINETY minutes to a soccer game and one must play in ALL of them. 2) Fans should remember that there is this sport that the rest of the world watches. It involves athletes who aren't fat guys in some form of spandex, and they don't swing sticks or grab each other. (Note: I am a huge baseball and football fan. Golf not so much.)

On a different note: the infamous vuvuzela could be the answer to world peace. Give warring governments a bunch of these violent kazoos. Eventually one set of politicians will hemorrhage in the ears. The most complicated of treatises is suddenly self-resolving.

The South Africans (and Chinese who actually mass produce this newfangled trumpet) have inspired me to incorporate the stadium horn into my every-day life. I aim to hire a professional vuvuzelaist.

Imagine: it is time to wake up. Instead of somnolently hitting "snooze" and turning over, I'm blasted by the drone of Fitzwilliam, blaring his purple vuvuzela. I furiously awaken, sympathetic nervous system shot into high gear. From under my covers I pull out a second plastic vuvuzela. I use it not to make noise, but as a giant orange stick; I chase Fitzwilliam around my house. Fitzy, unable to perform AND sprint away from a pissed-off 23 yr old, will have to abandon his noise making schemes. Fates are decided by a full-scale combat. Crouching trumpet, hidden grad student. All before breakfast.

It gets better. Fitzwilliam will play his loudest concerto every time I'm stuck in traffic or next to some 'badass' junky car blaring rap music so loud the S.A. fault shook. Best of all--every time some uppity teenager has to talk on the phone about her shopping trips before prom, Fitzy will save my day. Meanwhile, my hearing would slowly go to shit.

I still dream of coming up with a vuvuzela shaped dessert. Perhaps I could make thin cookies and shape them into tiny trumpets. Perhaps I could take ice cream cones and turn them into vuvuzela cones. Perhaps I will try these things when I actually have time to clean up a kitchen coated in sugar. Yet, I do not kid: just wait for the latter recipe.

What I have managed to do, however, is make ice cream. I bought myself an ice cream maker as a congrats gift for snagging a fellowhip I bitched about immensely in the fall. Ice cream is quite simple to make. Although I am terrified of scalding milk or scrambling egg yolks, in reality making a rich ice cream base takes less than a batch of cookies dough.


Naturally, my first inclination was to add alcohol. Surprisingly I resisted the urge the first few times. Eventually however, I caved in.

Hence, Bailey's-chip ice cream. (pictures to come) The pale background with tiny chocolate chips makes a round scoop look almost like an edible soccer ball. Ok, it is a bit cheesy. I don't care. I merely hope my pants still fit after this ice cream binge. Besides, a scoop of this stuff in one's morning coffee while screaming at the television is better than beating people with plastic sticks.


Bailey's-chip ice cream

5 lg egg yolks
0.75 c sugar
2 c whole milk
1.25 c heavy cream
pinch salt
1/4 c Bailey's
1 c MINI chocolate chips

Whisk together yolks, salt, and sugar until mixture is pale, yellow, and thick.

Combine milk and cream. Heat until the edges bubble. Don't let boil. Remove from heat.

Temper yolks: add about 1 c of hot milk mixture to the yolk mixture, whisk briskly. Now that yolks are used to hot dairy, add yolks into the milk-cream and whisk.

Slowly cook over low heat until thermometer reads 170 F. Turn off heat. Mix will continue to heat until 175-180, depending on the pot. Stuff should coat the back of a spoon, and a line drawn down the back should hold.

Strain through a fine sieve (important! keeps mix silky). Chill in fridge, about three hours. Add Bailey's.

Pour into ice cream maker, follow directions. In the last 10 min of churning, add chocolate.

Once stuff is done it will be soft. If you can wait, put it in a container and let it age in the freezer for a couple hours. However, it is really good straight out of the machine.