Divisions and Precisions

Toasters and time machines

I burned an English muffin while making breakfast this morning and all of a sudden I was sixteen again.

The summer before my senior year in high school I worked at McDonalds pretty much full time (and the summer after my senior year, but that's another story for another time). As fast food jobs went, it wasn't horrible. I liked my coworkers (in fact, I liked one of them so much I dated him for nine months--but again, another story, another time), and we spent a lot of time goofing around.

I worked the morning shift usually, 6am to 2pm. One of the regular breakfast customers was an old man named Ernie. I didn't like Ernie much. Every morning, about 7:30am, Ernie would come in, bring his newspaper and his cigarette up to my counter (this was in the days when smoking hadn't been banned everywhere), and blow smoke in my face with his order. His order was always the same: regular coffee, black, and a burnt English muffin. And brother, he meant burnt. I can still hear his voice, one of those raspy, gravelly old-man voices.

Now, Ernie was crochety before he got his coffee under the best of circumstances, but if the folks behind the grill didn't burn his English muffin enough, he'd throw it onto the counter and demand another one. It got to be part of the regular training routine for new people on the grill--"No, he really means burnt, not just dark. Please fortheloveofgod burn it the first time."

I don't know if you've ever smelled burnt English muffin. It's not a pleasant smell. It's not far off from burnt popcorn, but it's much much worse. It's an unforgettable sort of smell--but until this morning's adventure with the toaster, I don't think I've smelled it since I was sixteen. Who knew a toaster could be a time machine?