Dear Mr Toaster Oven

Dear Mr. Toaster Oven,

 It didn’t take long for me to notice you sitting there so stately on the shelf at the big box discount store. Although I’ve dreamt of your ability to simplify my life many times, I’ve often passed you without a glance. But this time, there was something that made me pause. Could it have been the lonely pizza roll left on the bottom of the oven that ignited the most recent kitchen fire? Perhaps it was the portrayal of the sexy meals made in glorified toaster oven on The Real Housewives of NYC. I’m not sure, but somehow you wound up in my cart tucked next to 12 pack of toilet tissue.

 I proudly removed you from the packaging, cleared off a space on the already cluttered small counter and announced your arrival to our family. Promptly, the three men entered our small kitchen. There was cautiousness about them. One sigh. One look of curiosity. It was obvious that the three men thought of you just as another kitchen gadget to be soon forgotten. Tucked away with the George Foreman grill, quesadilla maker, juicer, panama sandwich maker and various crock pots. But no! You are different. My partner in every day cuisine.

 Mr. Toaster Oven, it’s been 30 days since we’ve been together. We survived the four dozen chocolate chip cookie power-baking marathon for the basement full of 12 year-old boys. You’ve taught a 16-year-old food the value of frozen food aisle of Costco. Best of all, we’ve made a month of meals without activating the smoke alarm.

 We will have years of meals together. And although I’m not a sexy Real Housewife of NYC, I can cook like one now.