Toast

"My mother is scraping a piece of burned toast out of the kitchen window, a crease of annoyance across her forehead. This is not an occasional occurrence, a once-in-a-while hiccup in a busy mother’s day. My mother burns the toast as surely as the sun rises each morning. In fact, I doubt if she has ever made a round of toast in her life that failed to fill the kitchen with plumes of throat-catching smoke. I am nine now and have never seen butter without black bits in it. 

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you. People’s failings, even major ones such as when they make you wear short trousers to school, fall into insignificance as your teeth break through the rough, toasted crust and sink into the doughy cushion of white bread underneath. Once the warm, salty butter has hit your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands."

Toast - Nigel Slater

One of my own early fondest memories was of sitting at the family breakfast table eating toast, always white sliced bread, that had often  been scraped at the open kitchen door and still with that unmistakable smoky aroma. 

For the past couple of months I have been making my own sourdough bread. There's a loaf proving as I write, and the four day old slice by my side tastes wonderful for breakfast this morning, tangy, with a little butter and cracked black pepper. There is nothing particularly revolutionary about making your own bread, having a weekly organic vegetable box delivered your door, or even contemplating growing some of your own food. Nothing revolutionary at all. Welcome to my blog.