Toast

I figured I would treat myself to breakfast out this morning so I went to Harry's Main Street Grille, Westminster Md. The original intent of this blog was egg breakfasts but the smell of toast brought back a wave of nostalgia. My favorite breakfast growing up was toast and milky tea. In part because I had and still have a delicate stomach, but also because I was a picky eater. I did not like pancakes but loved waffles. That still holds true. I gagged on any kind of egg and hit the yolks of hard boiled eggs around the house. The solidified white was fine but the yolk. Ugh. I went so far as to pick the yolks out of potato salad, macaroni salad and my mom's tuna salad. Yes, I would surely die if I ate an egg yolk. Hence toast. My mom attempted to make homemade bread at times but a lack of patience for proofing yeast and kneading resulted in dense, yeasty bricks of bread. Rye and Pumpernickle were usually in the pantry along with the great American classic, white sandwich bread. Town Talk to be exact. My mom did then and still has a love- hate relationship with toaster dials. Therefore the toast usually burned. My mom would take a knife and scape the char off the bread and put it on my plate and say. "Eat it. It will make your hair curly.". One could only hope since those damnable chemical Tonettes were the only sure fire way to make my stick straight hair curl. My mom was and still is a stickler for cleanliness and safe food storage practices. This burnt shingle of toast could be adorned with a choice of near frozen butter, ice cold jam or refrigerated peanut butter. None of that could even think of soaking into whatever crevice the burnt offering had. And soa it went. Morning after morning in that little bungalow on 4th Ave. Saturdays meant play outside day. All day. So the morning started with a walk up the street after breakfast to my best friend Sharon's house. Inside this two story shingle house was a life totally opposite of mine. Sharon's mom did not get up early on Saturday. Nor did she iron, make a bed, clean the house. Nothing. With her long red hair knotted up in a chignon she padded around the house til 1 or 2 in the afternoon in a bathrobe and slippers with a long cigarette dangling from her ruby lips and a cup of coffee attached to her other hand. But. This woman could make toast. Only white sandwich bread, Town Talk, of course, was eaten in this household and lots of it. Ruth had no issue with the toaster dial. Nor did she really give a care about perfect food storage practices. The butter was pulled from the cupboard in a butter dish, room temperature depending on the season. In the summer the milk solids separated from the clarified butter bordering on rancid. Jams and peanut butter were pulled from the pantry. The toast, golden to perfection absorbed the buttery goodness and whatever other topping sunk generously into the pours of the bread. Yum. I still eat toast for breakfast and like my mom, i have issues with the dial on the toaster. Bagels, miche, challah, 7 grain, rye and wheat breads fill my refrigerator. No white sandwich bread in sight. I no longer use butter but the peanut butter and jam are kept in the refrigerator and as I smell the burnt toast and stuggle to get the peqnut butter to spead I think of the hope of curly hair and mornings of my youth. Next time. Eggs on Main