The Toaster Tenor

Pavarotti, the toaster oven, considered himself a misunderstood artiste. Every morning, he’d await his cue – a slice of artisanal sourdough – and launch into his magnificent, albeit fiery, performance. 'Ah, the crisping crescendos! The golden-brown bravado!' he'd hum, as plumes of smoke signaled another 'masterpiece.' His owner, Brenda, would sigh dramatically, fanning away the fumes. 'Pavarotti, darling, must you always burn the house down with your *passion*?' she'd coo, tapping the eject lever. Pavarotti would sulk, a burnt crumb clinging to his heating element. 'They never appreciate the true depth of my aria!' he'd lament silently. One particularly ambitious Monday, Brenda brought home a new, expensive loaf. 'Special request from the management,' she winked at the toaster. 'They heard you’re doing *Nessun Dorma* this week.' Pavarotti's coils glowed with renewed vigor. 'Finally!' he thought. 'An audience worthy of my vocal range!' He then realized Brenda was singing along, perfectly hitting every note, as his performance peaked in a spectacular shower of sparks and gloriously overdone toast. 'Bravo, Luciano,' she whispered, peeling off a carbonized corner. 'You still got it.'