Oh, toast, how I love thee. Your singed, crispy exterior blushfully hiding a sinfully soft inside. Hot buttery toppings pooling on a naturally uneven surface, crying out to be crunched, dipped or simply transport a plethora of possibility.
You are a fickle creature, at times indecisive and turning no-point of
return devilish shades with no more warning than a nostril flare of burning. I do so adore you with just a spring time blush; your coat just turning a beautiful golden brown. I will guiltily confess to turning away if you are sporting a summer tan, deep and too crisp.
Heavy German Pumpernickel, cloudlike white bread, nutty wholemeal, Italian fancy breads kneaded by Nonnas or simply complete with jewelled hunks of softly sweet fruit. I love you all.
Hunks of yeasty leavenings carved, then fired by temperamental machines of gleaming chrome.
You are the punctuation to mealtimes; morning toasts with a gloriously runny
egg, english muffins conveying opalescent eggs and rich hollandaise, club sandwiches beefing out
lunchtimes, sneaking into afternoon tea carousels and heroically
rescuing late dinners scooping fiery chilli or as toastie pies.
The simple act of toasting can even make gluten free bread taste good. Well, better in most cases anyway.
You are the hero of mealtimes. Anyone who doesn’t enjoy you slathered in a topping of their choosing is just uneducated.
In fact, toasts, you are the best thing since sliced bread.
Ps. I swear I haven’t lost the plot…
