The Toaster Contest

It’s the sixth annual toaster contest here in sunny Kentucky. The governor has just finished his speech (last year it was the state’s junior senator) and the contestants have mounted the stage.

Impeccably-dressed men in suits covetously hold their employers’ latest models. The factory-fresh toasters shine in the sunlight. The men stand stock-still, cooly regarding the crowd through their sunglasses. These corporate representatives aren’t well-liked, but they are tolerated; everyone knows it’s the toaster companies that bankroll this event.

The soul of the event lies in the real contestants: a motley array of men, women, old, young, standing, squatting, in various states of dress and undress, all clutching their own toaster. Here is a wild-eyed man who has spent possibly all his money and more on a new model in the hopes it’ll score him a cash prize. There is an ancient woman with a hulk of a toaster from over half a century ago, dragged along by its ropey power cord like some stubborn old dog.

First to go were the corporate representatives. With mechanical, precise motions they took slices of the prepared bread and fed them into their machines. One of the judges, sat with the other judges just to the left of the table on which the toaster worked, discreetly produced a small piece of paper and held it just high enough to read. He still had to look down into his lap to read it, making him look somewhat timid, an effect not helped by his strained, unenthusiastic tone. He began to read: “the EdgeBaker 3 transforms toasting bread into a modern, inclusive experience…” Some in the crowd shook their heads. Even the other judges shot him a few contemptuous glances. “Its crumb tray can also be used as a knife to spread butter… or condiments…”

No one was really listening. The wait for the toaster companies’ showcase to finish seemed interminable. By the end of it people were hopping about restlessly, hitting and slapping anything or anyone near them, picking fights with the air itself. But finally, it was time. The corporate representatives had disappeared, their task completed. One of the judges called out a number and the first contestant stepped forward.

It was the man with the new model. They could not have picked a worse contestant to place at the start. The crowd was heaving with disapprobation. Someone yelled out, “we already seen that one!” Indeed, it was an EdgeBaker model, but a slightly different one than the model the representative brought. The poor fellow never stood a chance. The judges, wanting to calm the howling crowd, expedited the judging process, gave him a middling score and sent him quickly off the stage. He stood on the grass beside the stage for a few minutes, limp and catatonic, until finally someone noticed him and escorted him away.

Number two was a better choice: the old woman with her rusted old tank of a toaster. Now the crowd was quiet and contented. The machine growled menacingly and even produced some smoke before springing forth two slices of toast. The source of the smoke was made apparent: ancient, ossified breadcrumbs which looked like little flakes of coal clung to the toast. With calloused, yellow old hands the woman held the slices above the toaster and shook the crumbs off with a motion of almost aristocratic gentleness and finesse, then she placed them on a large plate, side by side. She put the plate on the judges’ table.

Each slice was cut precisely down the middle, producing two halves: one half-slice for each judge, with a fourth going unused. They were cut this way to show the full range of flavour and texture throughout each slice. The judges bit into their slices and chewed weightily. They proceeded to announce their verdict: positive, very positive. A beaming smile illuminated the old woman’s rough features as she dragged her venerable toaster behind her, crossing the stage to let the next contestant play.

And so it went on for the next three hours or so. Finally, a sort of interlude took place while the judges deliberated. The winner was announced: the old woman with the old toaster. The browning, said the judges, was warm and honeylike. The primordial charred breadcrumbs gave the toast a wonderfully mature smokiness, they said. The crowd loved it. They loved the old woman even more, and cheered with a redoubled vigour when she stepped forward to the front of the stage.

“This is my pa’s toaster,” she began. “He fought in World War 2.” The crowd roared and applauded. “A genuine G.I. Bill toaster…” she spoke a few more words, hard to make out over the crowd’s loud approval, while a gentleman in a suit emerged unnoticed and strode across the stage towards her. It was one of the corporate representatives from earlier, holding a brand-new toaster.

“Ma’am?” he said, interrupting her speech. Once he had her attention, he placed the toaster on the judges’ table and walked away. The crowd stood silent and confused. “What… what’s…” the old woman began. “Where’s the money, I thought there would be money?” The crowd started up again. The rage had returned. The old woman started towards the judges’ table. One of the judges stood up and held his hands out pacifically, explaining this was only a generous gift from one of our sponsors and the money was still–

The old woman pushed the brand-new EdgeBaker 3 toaster off the edge of the table. It fell to the floor and hundreds of little components smashed and rattled loose. Its hybrid crumb-tray/knife popped out and spun across the floor. The hollow crack! of toaster hitting ground was like a gunshot to greyhounds. The crowd surged forwards and tore everything but the old lady and her old toaster to shreds.