A Slice of Reality

I remember Sunday mornings, vaguely.
I remember having to go to church, and it was the worst thing that could possibly be happening to me.
I remember mom herding us all into the kCar.
I remember itchy pants.
I remember after church. When the radio would be tuned to some sort of heavily traditional Newfoundland music, and we'd have a late breakfast.
And we'd be starving.
Because the Body of Christ simply doesn't fill up a kid on the go.
And Dad would burn the toast.
Every morning, really. But I remember it best every Sunday.
My parents had this toaster that they received as a wedding gift. And they used it until it simply wouldn't work any more.
Then they found a modern-day replica.
It's a two-piece, with fold-down sides.
It's kinda like the De Lorean of toasters.
And this thing (either model) burns toast in the blink of an eye.
The heating elements function in such a way that it goes from being lightly crispy to black as tar in seconds.
So much so that it had (and has) holes drilled into the top of it so that smoke can escape from it.
Dramatically.
If you burn two pieces at once, it's like watching the start of a miniature warehouse fire.
And Dad would burn his toast every week.
He'd eventually notice, from the corner of his eye, and then he'd quickly get up, while saying, "Oh, me toast, I burnt me toast."
His slippers would scuff on the floor as he hurried over.
Every week.
And then the smoke detector would go off.
He'd scrape the toast, with very little effort, mind you, and then butter it.

My father turns 65 in a few days.
Colin and I have the same toaster in our apartment.
Obviously, I burn my toast all of the time.
And I scuttle over to save it while wearing the same scuttly slippers, and the same plaid Dickie's work shirt.
And I scrape my toast, and then I butter it.
You do become your parents.
Luckily for me, my parents are hilarious.