Can we talk about toast – just for a minute?
I never realized till quite recently (when The General was sighing about my “toast rules”) how particular I really am about this ubiquitous breakfast item. Or, how many times it has featured in my life from childhood to present.
Firstly, the way toast is prepared in the UK and the way it is done elsewhere is vastly different. Perhaps because the toast was traditionally fetched from a far off, frigid area of the house and often shuffled into a toast rack, (something I have always yearned for) somehow, the British toast often seems to end up on the coolish side. And, if the bread is thin and therefore tending to be crispy, I actually prefer this temperature: the toast is now a more solid vehicle for – let’s just say it – more butter (and Marmite!) and much less prone to collapsing into itself like other more pillowy, gummy breads tend to do. (Apologies to any ‘Texas Toast’ fanciers – but I.just.can’t.)
Of course, this is where my toast contrariness begins.
I have been redecorating my office. Disturbingly, this is something that has not happened for 27 years. I found myself looking at the inside of a door etched with the frantic nail scratching of a sweet dog, long since passed, who was frightened by thunder; paintable ‘Anaglypta‘ wallpaper now stiffly rippling with age, rising up like Japanese Wave Art across one wall; loopy, repulsive carpet when peeled back, reveals an ancient spotty underpad that always reminds me of Pimiento Loaf. (You know the one: a beige deli ‘meat’ with festive coloured bits sprinkled throughout. Spoiler: Those bits will not be maraschinos …)
Beneath the underpad is random, dirty flooring comprised of a variety of planks that likely originated from the garage of some drunken uncles who installed many years before …
There was much for me to do.