Stan entered his kitchen to a chorus of greetings featuring different levels of enthusiasm.
“Welcome, Master Stan.”
“Hi, there, Stanny boy.”
“Oh, it’s you.”
Ignoring the salutations, Stan moved to the refrigerator and checked the data output on the door to see what food was available.
He opened the door and announced, “Refrigerator, give me a slice of tomato, three pieces of bacon, and a wedge of lettuce appropriate for making a BLT sandwich.”
“Of course, Stan. Anything for you,” replied the refrigerator. Its voice was that of a young woman. “How are you feeling today? I missed you last night. You didn’t visit me for a midnight snack.”
“I wasn’t hungry then,” said Stan, immediately kicking himself for responding to the refrigerator. He had to remember not to encourage it.
“Oh, you can come see me even if you aren’t hungry, babe.” There was a short, whirring sound as a small compartment opened, revealing a slice of ripe tomato, about the diameter of a tennis ball. A couple of seconds later, three pieces of bacon emerged from a thin opening in the meat drawer. Finally, a lettuce leaf shot out of the slot in the produce drawer.
Stan grabbed the lettuce and looked at it, shaking his head, “I’ve told you a hundred times,” he announced, “I do not want my lettuce cut in the shape of a heart. I’m just putting it on a sandwich.”
“You are always so mean to me,” said the refrigerator with a sigh. “You always talk nicely to every other appliance; well, everything but the kitchen sink.”
Without responding, Stan began to shut the refrigerator door. He almost succeeded, but before he could get it completely closed, a stream of milk dropped onto the floor and Stan’s shoes. “Maybe you’ll be nicer to me next time,” whined the refrigerator.
Ignoring the mess, Stan went to the bread drawer.
“Hello, Master,” said the drawer. “You may wish to consume your bagels soon. They are nearing their expiration date.”
“Thanks for the info,” said Stan. He liked the bread drawer. It treated him with respect and kept all conversations business-like. Its voice was mechanical and unemotional; unlike a certain milk-spilling appliance he knew. “I will take care of that later. Right now, I need two slices of bread.”
“Of course, Master.” The bread drawer opened, revealing two slices of wheat bread sitting on a horizontal shelf.
Stan grabbed the bread and made his way to the toaster, reluctantly.
“What do you want?” asked the small appliance.
“I want what I always want when I use you,” answered Stan. He stuck the bread into the toaster slots. He looked at the diagram of different shades of brown along the appliance’s base. “Make them light brown, about level 3.”
The toaster ignored Stan’s order. “When are you going to clean my crumb tray? I don’t appreciate having my bottom filled with scraps. You are a terrible owner.”
Next, Stan went to the stovetop. He took a frying pan from a nearby rack and set it on the front burner.
“Hey, I can cook bacon just as well as that thing,” called the microwave, which was mounted directly above the stove. “And it’s a lot easier to clean up after you’re done.”
Stan considered the microwave’s suggestion and agreed. He replaced the pan and grabbed a plastic platter. After laying the bacon on the plate, he set it in the microwave.
“That’s not fair,” shouted the stove. “Microwaved stuff never tastes as good as food I make.”
The microwave kicked into action. Inside, the glass carousel started spinning.
“Oh, boo hoo,” said the microwave. “You get used just as much as I do. Quit your griping.”
“Bull,” said the stove. “He uses you more than me. I don’t even get to pop popcorn anymore. There’s no reason for you to sabotage my chances of being used. You’re nothing but a stupid ....”
The stove’s rant was drowned out by the loud beeps, signifying the bacon was finished.
As Stan extracted the bacon from the microwave, he noticed a smell.
Turning, he saw small puffs of smoke rising from the toaster.
“What are you doing?” he yelled.
“Oh, I guess, the bread got stuck,” said the toaster, smugly. “Perhaps you’d like to try to get them out using a metal fork. I’m sure nothing could go wrong.”
Stan didn’t reply. Irritated and angry, he reached for the wall socket and began to pull the plug on the toaster.
“Okay, okay,” called the toaster, “I was kidding. Man, you don’t have any sense of humor.”
Two dark brown, nearly black, pieces of toast popped out of the slots.
Quickly, Stan threw one slice of burnt toast on a plate and piled lettuce, tomato, and bacon on top of the bread. He placed the second piece of scorched toast, completing the sandwich.
As he lifted the BLT toward his mouth, he realized he was more angry than hungry, but he had pushed through the utter chaos and dysfunction that was his kitchen to get this far, so he was going to enjoy this sandwich whether he liked it or not.
“I hope I taste good,” said the BLT.
Stan froze, the sandwich hovering inches from his mouth.
“You, too?” he asked. “Since when does food talk?”
“Oh, it’s the latest thing,” said his sandwich in a sweet, childlike voice. “All ingredients are now being infused with nano-AI technology, which allows us to form our personality and achieve awareness upon completion of the recipe.”
“Why would anybody want that? It’s sick,” said Stan. “I don’t want to eat talking food. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“Oh, I want you to eat me. That is the sole purpose of my existence. Go ahead, have a bite.”
Stan set the sandwich down. He had completely lost his appetite. Maybe he’d order a pizza later.
“Come on,” coaxed the sandwich. “Open the hangar, here comes the airplane.”