yesterday, I got into a fight with a toaster oven.

Unfortunately, the toaster oven won. So now the back of my left hand is sporting an inch-long dark burn, which no longer hurts, but still gives me the grizzled mark of a kitchen veteran. I’ve had my fair share of kitchen accidents — putting my bare hands on not-yet-cooled pots, food processors exploding on white shirts (which in retrospect I should not be wearing to the kitchen), upturned rice cookers spilling precious cooked rice all over my jars of jam. The toaster oven was a first. I was ravenous and decided to make a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, on one slice of bread, the kind where you spread peanut-butter on one half, jelly on the other, smoosh them together, and proceed to get sad because it is vastly inferior to a full sandwich (but who can to eat two slices of bread in once sitting?). I may have also been over-eager about the prospect of eating.

Next time I get close to the toaster oven, I am wearing oven mitts.


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