And by toast, I mean unidentifiable, charred remains of once fluffy bread.
Picture it: Smoke fills the air, a woman, cute hair, butter on her sweatshirt, briskly opens the silverware drawer, which also has butter in it. Cue smoke alarm. The oven opens. The woman's husband runs around the apartment, fanning the air with his snuggie. The blackened pieces of cinnamon toast find their rightful place in the trash can.
Yep. This may or may not have been my Saturday morning...Cooking adventures cease not!