I'd always despised my toaster oven. It routinely burned my toast, and had from its first week in my house been a complete eyesore. The glass door was blackened by smoke, the interior was encrusted with debris, and the white plastic cord was singed from when it got tangled somehow and ended up snuggled against the toaster itself. I tried to clean it, once. I'd rather brush my teeth with steel wool.

I had acquired it on the cheap at my local supermarket, in the aisle where they sell flimsy non-stick pans. I should have thrown it out after it burned its own power cord, but instead, mindful of the family stress that could result from a lack of toast, I duly wrapped the toaster oven in newspaper and packed it into a box when we moved from Boston to Baltimore.  

Upon arrival, we found that the oven in our new house, despite a brightly glowing "on" light, emitted no heat. A new oven was out of the question, so for months I used the grill and braised on the stovetop. But as the time passed and the weather turned, we started yearning for the kinds of things that could only be created with intense, radiant, enveloping heat—flaky scones, eggy popovers, and savory drop biscuits, fresh from the oven for Sunday brunch.

Could the despised toaster oven stand in for the broken oven? I Googled "biscuits toaster oven." Indeed, it seemed that others had successfully attempted just such a thing. I whipped some buttermilk and flour into a wet dough, heated the oven for a few minutes, then dropped spoonfuls of dough onto the riven and tinny little toaster tray. Twenty minutes later, uncannily perfect biscuits. Next, I tried a half-dozen tin of muffins, with similarly spectacular results. 

"You're a really good toaster cooker, Mom," my 8-year-old observed, stuffing half a pear-and-banana muffin into his mouth.  

 That crumb of encouragement led me to take on a bigger challenge: twice-risen yeasty bread, formed by hand into crusty loaves. Could it be done? I halved my typical bread recipe, using a scant three cups of flour, and formed the risen dough in a bread loaf pan. The kids had changed into their pj's and were in bed when the toaster's timer dinged. We all rushed to the oven and found to our amazement a beautifully browned, puffy loaf.

This was like discovering that an annoying uncle was actually a world-class surfer. The toaster oven! Who knew? We ate half of the loaf slathered with butter right there.

If the food chemist Harold McGee is to be believed, somehow my toaster oven was producing better Maillard reactions than any oven I'd ever had. (For those of you out of the loop, Maillard reactions occur when heat makes the carbs in your food react with the proteins in it, producing the hundreds of chemical compounds responsible for deep browning and full, intense, complex flavors.) The toaster oven's small, so it gets hot fast, and its little metal interior conducts heat efficiently, allowing for the powerful bursts of dehydrating heat required for the Maillards.

The scientific explanation for the toaster habit, however, didn't do much to ease my emotional adjustment to it, which proceeded in stepwise fashion. First came fear. Had I become the culinary equivalent of an eight-track-tape fan, a technological Luddite clinging pathetically to her dot-matrix printer? Next: paranoia. If a cheap supermarket toaster oven could enable gourmet-quality baking, albeit on a small scale, I wondered, why was the kitchenware industry hawking $2,000 commercial-sized stainless steel ovens, and why were people buying them? Did they know something I didn't? Finally: defiance. Who cares what the epicures and connoisseurs say about the required latest gadgets and gizmos? If I wanted to use what I already had, to improved effect—and cook more and eat better to boot—I would. Let them eat cake!

Resolved, I was soon baking in the toaster oven nearly every day, producing beautiful cinnamon-raisin loaves, cumin-and-fennel boules, whole-wheat-walnut sandwich bread, breakfast bread, gift bread, a pumpkin-pecan pie, and coconut-oatmeal cookies. I moved on from the baking of breakfasts and desserts to the roasting and braising of dinners. At Thanksgiving, the toaster oven roasted eight pounds of turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes—enough chow to feed eight. On New Year's, a crock of anise-scented chicken-liver pâté. The other night, a whole cut-up 4-pound chicken got stuffed into a nine-inch round pan with tomatoes, olives, and preserved lemons. In ninety minutes, out came a dish with brown glistening skin, bubbling juices, and meat falling off the bone.

I observe the toaster oven's cheery progress while chopping and dicing and sipping my wine. The toaster oven needs just minutes to heat up—my old oven needed an hour of pre-heating to bake a pizza. Its snug and cozy interior has no cold spots that leave meats flaccid and baked goods doughy. And opening it does not demand a complete kitchen evacuation and the donning of protective gear: Just lift the dainty glass door, conveniently positioned at countertop level.

Because I'm the kind of person who obsessively checks the electric meter, I know that our daily kilowatt consumption has not spiked since intensive toaster-oven use began. Which makes sense, given its size difference with a real oven. (Granted, I'm comparing the toaster oven to the creaky, leaky, heavy-doored ovens I've used in the past—but then again, it's not like this toaster oven is some gourmet appliance, either.)

It seems this recession's new frugality doesn't have to mean tedious hours of coupon clipping and grim meals of canned beans. The ease of toaster-oven baking means it is possible to bake regularly, which can save discernable quantities of cash. Banish crackers, cookies, rolls, bagels, pita, sliced sandwich bread, and artisanal loaves from your grocery list and you can save at least $30 a week. In their stead, 10 pounds of flour, which can cost as little as $4, and a few minutes of carefree toaster-oven baking. You and your family will feel indulged, not deprived. And the satisfaction of redeeming a humble and oft-maligned appliance? Priceless.  

The only downside is, like other chastened toaster-oven bakers, you will have to sweep more often. Your house, like mine, will be full of crumbs.
 
—Sonia Shah's third book, a political history of malaria, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus & Giroux.





photo by Steve Buchanan


Roast Chicken with Tomatoes, Olives and Preserved Lemon

1 4-pound chicken, cut up
1–2 preserved lemons or limes, cut into ½-inch wedges
Handful of pitted cured olives
1 tomato, quartered
Olive oil
Several cloves of garlic, peeled and lightly smashed with the side of a knife

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Tuck the chicken pieces into a roasting tin. Throw in the garlic cloves, the preserved lemons or limes, the cured olives, and the quartered tomato. Drizzle generously with olive oil. Don't salt—the olives will provide sufficient saltiness. Roast for an hour. When the joints move freely, a small puncture brings forth clear juices, and the skin is browned, it's done.

De-fat the cooking juices and serve with cooked couscous.

—S.S.



Preserved Lemon

6­­–8 lemons
2/3 cup salt, preferably sea salt or kosher 
Glass jar with tightly fitted lid (I used an old jelly jar)

Cut the lemons into eighths. Squeeze their juice into the jar and toss the lemon pieces with the salt. Pack them tightly into the jar with the juice. If necessary, squeeze juice from some additional lemons to cover. Screw the lid on and store at room temperature for five days, giving the jar a shake once a day or so. 

Preserved lemons will keep in the fridge for weeks. You can also dole out the same treatment to limes, with excellent results.

—Adapted from Gourmet, May 2007