Toasting Twelve Years

Twelve years, one woman.  Remarkable, right?  I agree, and in the days leading up to the big date, it occurred to me that a cool dozen necessitated a really hot gift.  When I mentioned that a week in Monte Carlo might be just the thing, my sometimes-logical wife suggested that the casinos would probably be off limits to the McBonerito.  My lament that this kid was 'cramping our style' was largely ignored, though, and I resigned myself to the idea that the anniversary present would have to be smaller, perhaps something that could be boxed and wrapped.  But what to give the woman who has everything?

It was at breakfast that it hit me.  As my wife worked over the whites of a pair of fried eggs, she was faced with the weekly conundrum of what to do with the yolks.  With no efficient way of consuming the messy yellow blobs, she had adopted several clever ways of disposing of them.  But our dealer in aquaria recommended she cease plopping them in the fish tank, and our house plants, instead of thriving from the boost in omega 3 fatty acids, died slow, torturous deaths.  Cooking the yoke through was no kind of option, and yet how to sop up that pool of goo?  We needed something spongelike, and yet not quite a sponge.

Suddenly, like 1,800 watts of electricity, it hit me.  I hopped into the McBonemobile and was soon prowling the aisles of our local appliance store.  I spotted the silvery R-7 right off.  Like a muscle car of old, it sat there, a vigorous, latent thing.

The circling shark of a salesman smelled blood.

That's the model I'd choose, he said.  I caught him sizing me up.  Perhaps he was appraising my skinny frame when he said, of course, a machine like that isn't for everyone.

This happens to be for my wife.  Anniversary present.

The portly gent exhaled a fume of pastrami and mustard.  Probably too much toaster for a woman, he chuckled.

Five minutes later he was loading the R-7 into the McBonemobile.  The next morning, my sometimes-observant wife found the device sitting on the counter.  After calming her tearful euphoria, we started toasting some toast.  Six-slice capacity, stainless steel chassis, 'top brown' setting...truly, this toaster had it all.

I fired up the skilled and gave the shells a good crack.

How do you want your eggs, my dear?

Runny, she purred.

Happy anniversary, babe.

nwb