On Toast!

Forgive me ahead of time for writing about a subject that is not strictly related to writing. It is, however related to a personal passion, something I feel very strongly about: toast.

I have long enjoyed the virtues of buttered toast. It is simple, portable, and satisfying (both aurally and orally). It has quieted my hungry stomach and comforted my weary mind on more than one occasion. I am sure somewhere in my DNA there is an explanation for why toast is, at times, better than a cup of chamomile. However, with or without a scientific explanation for my preferences, what is now being done with toast makes me ill.

ABC News put out an article on the fifteenth discussing how toast is the newest overpriced thing in cafés. With prices reaching from anywhere between $3.50 to $7.00 per slice, there are certain establishments that sell slices of toast numbering into the hundreds in one day. But this isn’t any toast. This is locally made bread, thick cut and slathered with organic almond butter and so on and so forth. Occasionally, toast masquerades under the name of “burnt” brioche (if it’s burnt, you’re doing it wrong).

Hipster toast.

What does this hipsterizing of toast mean to me? It means that every time I look at my simple piece of Italian bread with butter spread on it that I am going to hear the voice of the hipster gods in my ears saying “was that organically sourced?” and “why not add some guava paste and basil?” or “how about goat cheese, tomatoes, and extra virgin olive oil?”. And I will mutter at my white saucer and mute toast about how all I want is a little bite of something good, not a culinary scrapbook.

So, I will wait for the fad to fade. My mother (who taught me the finer points of toast) and I will be one another’s support group in world obsessed with putting frills and a dollar signs on foods never meant for either. I will not buy one piece of toast. And I will continue to push my toast down into the toaster one-and-a-half times to reach my preferred level of toastiness, General of Electric be damned.


Haunted by the Cellar Door

Haunted by the cellar door
the most beautiful words to be spoken…
and I sit angry
cellar door?
After all you’ve taught us, forced us to understand
It’s “cellar door” you claim to hold the beauty of all English language
I have poured over poems and burnt my eyes in books
for the love of the beauty of the English language.
At your requirement, I have bent my mind around work
I would never lift myself because it contains the beauty of the English language.
I’ve read the struggles of authors to capture beauty in words
But here, all they had to say to is “cellar door”
Cellar door
The words laugh at me from the chalkboard, a blank declaration of superiority
to everything around it.
Have you seen one? A cellar door? Touched it, stepped inside?
And you tell me the door to the hole where I store potatoes
Hides all the beauty in the world?
I hope I burn your cellar door
I hope it bends and splits, that destruction would be beautiful.
I hope it melts and you never see another cellar door.
I want nothing to do with your cellar door.
But every time I see one, I won’t be able to think of anything else but this anymore.