Blame it on My Youth: Why I am Memory-Challenged
I'm eating breakfast. Cold toast doesn't go down well. You ever notice that? The butter doesn't melt in, the bread is hard, though not hard enough to go "crunch" when it's bitten. You don't "crunch" into cold toast, you grind your teeth through it, tearing the bit unwilling from the rest of the slice. Because the butter is just sitting on top, anything you try to lay on top of the slice will slide and likely fall off its well-greased surface with every bite. Ick. It's not easy to swallow, either, because, what with gnawing at that piece of fat-smeared cardboard for the five minutes it takes to masticate, you have no saliva left. I like my toast hot. I know this, because I've had it that way before. I remember having hot toast. I remember it fondly: the crunch when you bite, the uprising melted butter, it salty goodness, the way it slipped down so smoothly. Yummm. I think the last time I had hot toast was in December 6, 1985, the day before my eldest child was born. A hot slice of toast and a hot cup of tea. *sigh* (What? Why are you looking at me like that? A woman has a right to her fantasies!!) All right, I admit it: I do get the hot tea part. Thank goodness for microwaves. Just not with the toast. Hot tea and hot toast, at the SAME TIME?? What do you think I am, a miracle-worker?? Darcy was scrambling over the baby gate earlier, chanting "climb-climb, climb-climb" as he did so. Now I have that antique Sunday School song (because I am approaching my antique-hood, after all), "Climb, Climb up Sunshine Mountain" running through my head. You know it?