Look, I know what you’re thinking: “This lunatic pays for bread just to cremate it?”
Guilty as charged. Every single morning, without fail, I stand by my toaster like a pyromaniac at a bonfire party, deliberately turning perfectly good sourdough into something resembling volcanic rock. And honestly? It’s the best decision I make all day.
Let’s rewind. For years, I was locked in a toxic relationship with my toaster. I’d hover, breath held, finger poised over the cancel button like a bomb defusal expert. Setting 3? Pale sadness. Setting 4? Russian roulette. Setting 5? Chernobyl reenactment. My kitchen smoke detector was basically my most consistent roommate, chirping its judgment at 7 AM. I’d scrape off the charcoal, muttering curses, feeling like a domestic failure before I’d even had caffeine. Sound familiar? We’ve all got that one thing we inexplicably suck at, right? For you, maybe it’s parallel parking, or keeping plants alive, or folding fitted sheets (a dark art, truly). For me, it was toast. Gloriously, spectacularly, burning toast.
Then, one Tuesday morning, running late, frazzled, I slammed the lever down on max power and bolted to find my missing shoe. You know that smell? That acrid, unmistakable scent of impending firefighter intervention? It hit me. Panic! I sprinted back, visions of kitchen renovations dancing in my head. I yanked the plug. There it sat: blacker than my morning coffee, harder than my post-pandemic gym resolve. Utterly, completely ruined. Defeated, I slumped at the table. What else could I do? I scraped. I scraped hard. And then… I took a bite.
Here’s the twist nobody tells you: Beneath the scorched earth? Pure, unadulterated, perfect toast.
All that scraping? It revealed the Platonic ideal of crispy, golden-brown deliciousness underneath. No soggy middles. No anemic patches. Just pure, structural integrity and flavour. It was… incredible. Like finding a diamond in a dumpster fire. But it wasn’t just about the taste.
That first bite of accidental perfection taught me something stupidly profound: *Perfection is exhausting. Burnt toast is freedom._
Think about it. We live in a world screaming at us to get it right. Instagram breakfasts are artfully arranged avocado masterpieces. LinkedIn profiles boast relentless achievement. TikTok life hacks promise flawlessness in 60 seconds. It’s exhausting! The pressure to be the perfect partner, employee, parent, friend, toast-maker… it’s a recipe for constant, low-grade anxiety.
My daily ritual of deliberate destruction became my tiny, delicious rebellion. That aggressive scraping? It’s therapy. It’s me physically shedding the expectation of flawlessness. Embracing the char isn’t laziness; it’s strategy. It’s accepting that the path to something good (or even great) often involves a messy, imperfect, even ugly step. You have to burn off the excess to find the real gold.
It connects to everything! Remember that viral “ugly produce” movement? Celebrating wonky veggies because taste matters more than looks. Or those celeb “cooking fail” TikToks that get millions of views? We love seeing the mighty stumble because it’s real. It’s the burnt toast philosophy in action: Imperfection is relatable. It’s human. It’s where the good stuff often hides.
My deliberately burnt toast is my daily reminder:
- Done is better than perfect: That slightly charred report submitted on time? Better than the flawless one stuck in draft purgatory.
- Vulnerability connects: Admitting you burned dinner (or your life plan) makes others breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god, it’s not just me.”
- The good stuff needs friction: That challenging project, the tough conversation, the workout you really didn’t want to do? They’re the fire. They might leave a mark, but they forge something stronger underneath.
So yeah, I’ll keep setting my toaster to “Inferno.” I’ll relish the scrape. I’ll savour the perfect crunch beneath the carbon. Because every morning, before the world demands impossible perfection, I give myself permission to be gloriously, intentionally, deliciously imperfect.
Your turn: What’s your “burnt toast”? What imperfect little ritual sets you free? Spill the beans (or the crumbs) in the comments! Bonus points if it involves actual fire.
Signed,
Your Resident Charcoal Connoisseur 🔥