The trials and tribulations of buying a replacement toaster in the gadget age.
Twenty seconds into the toasting cycle I was greeted with fzzzzzzzz-spark-BANG! Unwilling to try and brave the innards of why the element shorted or fix it, I declared it defunct.
It had a good innings; fourteen years by any toasty standard is exceptional, and it’s testament to the fact I deliberately bought the most low-tech yet functional model I could lay my hands on. Certainly it’s done well compared to the five nanotech toastbots my parents have been duped into buying in the same time frame.
I have very specific needs in a toaster:
- Put bread in
- Set dial to desired shade
- Depress lever
I don’t want advanced microchip controlled tomfoolery that gives the bread an orgasm in the process. I don’t need a snazzy blue light or a countdown timer to know when my toast will be ready. I don’t want it to double as a pizza oven, or a helicopter landing pad. I want my bread to fit in, get toasted to my specification every time, and pop up when it’s done.
Can I get one that does that? Hell no. By all accounts, the budget end of the range tend to burn bread, slices don’t fit in the slots, or they don’t offer decent control over browning; mid-range toasters start to add unnecessary gizmos and computer control, which always ends in tears because computers universally suck; and the top end models resemble a nuclear launch surface, complete with dual encrypto-key slots at the console’s extremities to initiate the toasting sequence.
At this rate it looks as if I’ll have to build a fire pit in my kitchen and buy a toasting fork.