Tyler Ayres

Creative Non-Fiction

The blender! A long time coming, the blender was, and what a poor substitute the hand-me-down food processor did make next to the blender. Ah-ha, the blender. 

No luxury model—a modest GE discounted further—the blender sometimes yielded mana but more often less couth lassis. Spirulina beetroot chia mud gulped, another morning chore. Manuka butter egg yolk spritzer choked down, keep the peace and save face. But when it was good wasn’t it so good?

Soon the bright flavors paled and then galled. The clashing of taste and palate that were first savored soon curdled then cloyed, daily recommended values somehow never met but also always exceeded. 

With no one to fill it up but no one to push its buttons either, the blender sulked alone on the counter. Vestigial vessel! Sans contents, discontent; content sans contention. No more mixtures but no more admixtures. High hopes of morning routines brought low then crushed, but how about that blessed clear peace without the roaring from the kitchen.

Thankfully the blender box was still around, saved because wasn’t there always an inkling of a hint that its days of use were numbered from the start?

One last rinse and a wiping for the dust and back into the box the blender went. Back across the country the blender went, and then up into the attic, into a tote with a few left wool socks too good for tossing, a hand-knit scarf too soft for keeping, and past-date pictures that maybe just maybe might yet be good if brave or stupid.

Now the breakfast kale is crunched alone, a little more work but without the stomaching, the nose pinching, the choking down.

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Tyler Winthrop Ayres lives for the moment on a sandbar in New England. To gather source material, he has been a machinist, a fine dining waiter, an intelligence operator, a Mandarin translator, a yoga instructor, and a knife peddler. He encourages readers to eat their crucifers and share long hugs if bathed.