Snackatistas Unite!
Jun. 28th, 2006 11:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
semiotic_pirateSo I decided to break out an old appliance, squirrelled away in a cabinet... to make the most amazing lunch evah! I had totally forgotten about this little item, until I stumbled across a Hello Kitty version of it over on Cute Overload. Mmmmn. Pepper turkey with swiss and cranberry sauce, toasted into those little triangles! Of course, I had lost track of the instructions. I had no idea if my experiment would work - or explode in my face. Hence, the Googling of Toastmaster Snackmaster, where I found THIS:
Toastmaster Sandwich Maker
by David P. Kleinschmidt
The Toastmaster Sandwich Maker has one purpose in life. It grills cheese sandwiches. Its operation is simplicity itself: Clamp it around a raw grilled cheese sandwich, wait four minutes and pull out a cooked grilled cheese sandwich—no fuss, no muss. (Actually, there is rather a lot of muss if you use too much cheese. It kind of oozes out the sides of the machine and gets in the electrical work and you can never quite escape the smell of molten Brie. But I digress.)
I got one of these for Christmas one year while I was at college. Not being the kind of person who reads things—like the “instruction manual,” say, or even “the box”—the Toastmaster Sandwich Maker got rechristened The Snackmaster. But after a few poorly considered liverwurst and Tilsiter sandwiches gooped up the whole kitchen, it got re-rechristened The Snackblaster. But I digress again.
After I got back from break I was comparing loot with my roommates. I held up the machine like I was the messiah of some kind of Betty Crocker cargo cult. “Behold!” I proclaimed. “The Snackblaster!”
“What’s it do?” asked one of the nonbelievers.
“It makes grilled cheese sandwiches!”
“Oh yeah, we have one of those at home,” said one particular smartass. “But we call it a griddle.”
“No, no! This is a revolution in cookware. It turns grilled cheese sandwiches into grilled cheese sandwiches with patterns on them.” But they did not understand. They mocked and belittled me. And when they came home to the welcoming aroma of grilled salami and Gorgonzola, they mocked and belittled me harder, and with their noses pinched shut.
Years later, I was sitting in a caffé where they charge extra for coffee to pay for the second “f” in their name, when I noticed something familiar sitting in the refrigerator case. A selection of nine-dollar grilled cheese sandwiches—with patterns on them. I jumped to my feet and saw, behind the counter, the biggest Snackblaster in the world. Later I even saw one at Williams-Sonoma, but they called it an “Italian-Made Panini Press” and charged a hundred bucks for it. The Snackblaster had become trendy—vindication.
I called up my former roommate, who now works for the NSA, for the first time in five years. “The cookware revolution is here!” I shouted jubilantly into the phone.
“What? Who is this?” he asked.
“¡Yo soy Che Gruyera de las Snackatistas!” But I had to hang up quick to go clean up the dill havarti that was spurting out of The Snackblaster.
Pros: Turns grilled cheese sandwiches into grilled cheese sandwiches with patterns on them.
Cons: Shamefully, my NSA dossier now lists “Che Gruyera” as an alias.
Toastmaster Sandwich Maker
by David P. Kleinschmidt
The Toastmaster Sandwich Maker has one purpose in life. It grills cheese sandwiches. Its operation is simplicity itself: Clamp it around a raw grilled cheese sandwich, wait four minutes and pull out a cooked grilled cheese sandwich—no fuss, no muss. (Actually, there is rather a lot of muss if you use too much cheese. It kind of oozes out the sides of the machine and gets in the electrical work and you can never quite escape the smell of molten Brie. But I digress.)
I got one of these for Christmas one year while I was at college. Not being the kind of person who reads things—like the “instruction manual,” say, or even “the box”—the Toastmaster Sandwich Maker got rechristened The Snackmaster. But after a few poorly considered liverwurst and Tilsiter sandwiches gooped up the whole kitchen, it got re-rechristened The Snackblaster. But I digress again.
After I got back from break I was comparing loot with my roommates. I held up the machine like I was the messiah of some kind of Betty Crocker cargo cult. “Behold!” I proclaimed. “The Snackblaster!”
“What’s it do?” asked one of the nonbelievers.
“It makes grilled cheese sandwiches!”
“Oh yeah, we have one of those at home,” said one particular smartass. “But we call it a griddle.”
“No, no! This is a revolution in cookware. It turns grilled cheese sandwiches into grilled cheese sandwiches with patterns on them.” But they did not understand. They mocked and belittled me. And when they came home to the welcoming aroma of grilled salami and Gorgonzola, they mocked and belittled me harder, and with their noses pinched shut.
Years later, I was sitting in a caffé where they charge extra for coffee to pay for the second “f” in their name, when I noticed something familiar sitting in the refrigerator case. A selection of nine-dollar grilled cheese sandwiches—with patterns on them. I jumped to my feet and saw, behind the counter, the biggest Snackblaster in the world. Later I even saw one at Williams-Sonoma, but they called it an “Italian-Made Panini Press” and charged a hundred bucks for it. The Snackblaster had become trendy—vindication.
I called up my former roommate, who now works for the NSA, for the first time in five years. “The cookware revolution is here!” I shouted jubilantly into the phone.
“What? Who is this?” he asked.
“¡Yo soy Che Gruyera de las Snackatistas!” But I had to hang up quick to go clean up the dill havarti that was spurting out of The Snackblaster.
Pros: Turns grilled cheese sandwiches into grilled cheese sandwiches with patterns on them.
Cons: Shamefully, my NSA dossier now lists “Che Gruyera” as an alias.
