Toast has become a form of currency in the house. Mostly this is because we don’t have a dedicated toasting machine, so we instead use the grill section of our oven.

Collectively, we kind of suck at this a lot.

I am usually fairly decent at it – or, perhaps more correctly, “usually the person who first detects the scent of charring toast in the oven”.

Recently, however, I won the Burnt Toast Olympics.


(*this is the industrial toaster at a restaurant. Not the oven at the Hipster House.)



Why, yes, that is the red glow of embers implying that this toast was ON FIRE.

I tried to pick this toast up to throw it in the bin, and it disintegrated into ash when I touched it.

I told my friend that I had won the Burnt Toast Olympics, and he sent me my gold medal.


I am also no longer allowed to make fun of my housemates when they burn their toast. Because most of the time, theirs can still be salvaged.


That is un-scrape-able.


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