Just give me the burnt one

Christmas Memory 2007

Darron Johnson

“Just give me the burnt one,” Megan says as she reaches into the garbage can to pick up the blackened cheese sandwich.

Have I fallen asleep at the grill and am now dreaming this craziness? Am I hallucinating? Maybe I did not step into my Peach Tree apartment 15 minutes ago, but actually stepped into the Twilight Zone. No, Megan is definitely pushing me—the conscious, present me—out of the way to pick up the charred refuse from the dirty receptacle. What chain of events could have led me to this rather bizarre moment in time?

This morning started ordinarily enough. Kristen and I woke up at 6:30 and got ready for the day. At 7:30 we forced down some stale Corn Flakes and marched out to our car to drive into work together. The trusty, old All-Track Corolla got us to CaseData in the usual time; 15 minutes. I went to my desk, and Kristen went resignedly to her back room exile.

After an uneventful morning of QA, I met up with Kristen to head back home for a quick lunch. She informed me that Megan and Bart were in North Salt Lake visiting Bart’s cousin Jared Lyman, who happened to be our downstairs neighbor, and that Megan might pop over as long as we were going to be around.

So far so good. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to suggest I had fallen into an alternate reality where house guests dig through yesterday’s garbage for today’s special and hosts proudly serve sandwiches with a side of salmonella. So why do I find myself in this awkward predicament? Am I really going to have to disapprovingly slap my sister-in-law’s hand with the spatula to convince her that I honestly do not want her to eat from the trash? Surely not. And yet, she appears insistent upon eating the blackened bread. Perhaps there is something I missed, some clue in our recent interactions which might help unravel the mystery before me now.

I recall pulling into our covered parking space and walking by the pool to building 3. Kristen and I poked our noses into Jared’s place, sniffing for signs of life, but none seemed apparent. We had missed Megan, or we would miss her. We wouldn’t be home long—just long enough to cram a couple grilled cheese sandwiches down our throats and zip back to work.

We labored up the stairs and into our little home. No sooner had I dropped the first sandwich into the pan than we heard a knock at the door. Megan had arrived. Kristen opened the door to a whirlwind of hugs, hellos, laughter and merriment. When the excitement subsided, I discovered Megan and Kristen beaming at each other—elated to have even a few minutes together. I took in the scene, genuinely happy myself to witness the reunion.

Suddenly something seemed wrong. In an instant I realized what was casting a gloomy shadow over our meeting. It was smoke, and it was coming from the kitchen. I had burned my cheese toast.

You’ll remember that this is where our story began. You’ll realize why I left the lunch to overcook on the stovetop, but you’ll probably also realize that I still have no idea why the remains of this poor crust have been exhumed from their resting place and now sit on the plate of my house guest.

In a moment of uncharacteristic and surprising force I snatch the ruined food from Megan’s plate and pitch it into the kitchen sink. Before she has time to react, I crank the knob and run water over the sandwich. Nobody could possibly want to eat cheese toast that is both burnt and soggy. I smile inwardly at my genius, and then I see the horrified look on Megan’s face. I panic. To keep the mood light, or rather to restore the good humor I sucked out of the day, I offer a joke.

“Here, I’ll burn you a new piece of bread…and we’ve got some curdled milk in the fridge for you too.”

Megan’s face brightens, not because I delivered a good line and saved myself from embarrassment, but because both offerings seem to meet her expectations. She assures me that she would love nothing more than to drink our spoiled milk and eat the worst we can give her.

I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what happened here today, but I can tell you this much: If the United States ever experiences a second Great Depression, or food becomes scarce or just detestable to the average palate, Megan will not suffer from hunger or want. And I learned a lesson as well. I’ll think twice next time I consider wasting food. There may not be a starving child in China who would benefit from my table scraps, but Megan just might be dropping by that day.