Why we’re not toast

Our “new” toaster ticks like something that needs to be defused.

That’s not its only unusual feature. When my husband decided to make late-night toast without turning on the kitchen lights for some reason, we discovered it also glows. In a hot-red-wire, pulsing kind of way.

Like really pulsing. Pulsing that would have alarmed most people, especially given that our toaster was manufactured before either of us was born.

The fact our only reaction was joint, spontaneous laughter is probably what explains why we, as a couple, are not, well, toast. Beyond the ’til-death-do-us-part thing, no one else would put up with these kind of shenanigans.

Our obsession with old kitchen appliances started innocently enough. When my husband was in grad school, money was tight. He shopped thrift stores and garage sales for much of the stuff of daily life.

When we married — 30 years ago this summer — we were a two-income, no-kids duo for nearly a decade. We could have bought a new toaster. We just never did.

And, over the years, we got more adventurous. The small appliances got older and older. In the early days, it was 1970s and 1980s toasters and blenders and hand mixers and so on.

Right now, everything is mid-century modern — all chrome and cloth-bound wiring. It looks mighty fine in our 1920s kitchen, I must say. I also must say — for those readers who are wondering — that we have plenty of smoke detectors in the house and keep things unplugged when not in use.

The only drawback is, given their age, our beautiful appliances are sometimes tempermental. In addition to occasional rounds of bread burned to a crisp, we’ve had toast literally flung into the air like some sort of “I Love Lucy” episode. It’s all about the settings, often mysterious ones.

And, blenders. Don’t get me started. The most recent oldie-but-goodie was an Osterizer “bee hive,” named for its impressive chrome base shaped like a traditional bee skep.

It looked so good on a kitchen shelf. It worked so well, purring like a Lamborghini rather than roaring like a dirt bike.

Until it didn’t. One day, my smoothie seeped out the bottom of the blender. My husband fixed it. Another day, my smoothie wound up all over the counter. This time, it sprayed.

Don’t tell him, but I sneaked it into the garbage and — for the first time in our marriage — bought a new blender. At a retail store. I blame this impulse on empty nesting and the free time to think up things like wanting to make mango-peach salsa without the need of goggles.

The toaster is staying, however. Unless it actually catches fire. Or stops working in some other less dangerous way.

Anything else wouldn’t reflect who we are.

Get it? Reflect? All that chrome. We crack ourselves up…