I finally have my own grille-pain, er, that is, toaster. Everything you buy here in Canada has all these french words written all over the place, and the french version always tells you what the thing really does. In this case a toaster is a “bread griller.” Designed by “l’architecte de renommée mondiale, Michael Graves,” no less. A bread griller designed by a famous architect, produced with the quality and tradition of Black & Decker, for $14CAD at your local London Drugs (for my American peeps, London Drugs is something like a Walmart mixed with a 7-11: cramped, crowded, full of cheap stuff, and you can buy everything from tampons to computers).
For any of you have who met me for the first time when I got to Vancouver, this event is probably much more exciting (I know, I know, you must be simply trembling with delight) than for all the people who haven’t been listening to me complain about my lack of toaster since the first week I made it into my new apartment.
You see, I got to Canada with these illusions of maple syrup flowing from fountains and aged Canadian grandmothers slaving over hot pans to make perfect waffles and pancakes at any hour of the day. Upon having these dreams dashed to the ground like a child’s ice cream cone during a bear attack, I proceeded to my nearest yuppie grocery store and bought myself a $30CAD vial of maple syrup, supposedly squeezed softly from breast of an elderly maple, and some eggo waffles. But I think we all know what the problem was.
Well, now I have a squat little toaster, and it seems to be getting along with its neighbours (they use the ‘u’ thing up here, much to my spellchecker’s chagrin), but I won’t be using it until next Monday morning when I use it to produce a fine batch of mapled eggos for my father and myself when he comes to visit.