Toast Responsibly

I don't know what kind of bread your mom buys or makes, but around this house, we get it from a bakery that delights in colorful packaging and delicious bread. One of the many types of bread sold at this location comes in a red bag. It is labeled "Squirrelly Bread." This label has to do with the extreme brown-ness of the bread. The bakery probably took a variety of nuts, ground 'em up, chucked 'em in the bread maker and crossed their fingers. As a result of such healthy ingredients, your sudden concern for the actual taste of the loaf is understandable. (I consider it a general rule that any time your parents tell you something is healthy, they either mistakenly establish a sort of mental connection with the idea that you will enjoy it, or they are actively trying to bamboozle you. I now regard anything 'healthy' with deep suspicion.)

This bread, however, is surprisingly tasty, even without being toasted. In the latter state, it is worthy of raptures. Of course, you'll understand that all rapture comes with qualifications - even toast-rapture. The perfect toast is an elusive creature. Once it cools, it will become too crunchy, a condition that even the most indifferent consumer of bread detests. It must be devoured before this happens, that is, with gusto at the opportune moment.

To provide context for this didactic little narrative, let us imagine my kitchen as it was this morning. You are expecting, at this point, a table, a counter, some cupboards, and perhaps a loaf of Squirrelly Bread accompanied by condiments and utensils. You are not wrong; they are all there. But sprawled sullenly between them are those most malevolent of manuscripts: textbooks. Selected Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson lurks behind a bloated Cross-Talk in Comp Theory, which smothers several binders. Course syllabuses* are scattered about, and Arthurian Romance is belly up nearby. You'll find it a distressing scene, no doubt.

 In light of all this, it hardly seemed fair when breakfast turned out to be cold toast.** I crunched through it dutifully, but something snapped inside of me that day. Er, today. I immediately*** composed a threnody to properly convey my feelings. Here it is.

If you, as I
had swift unfurled
all the maps of all the world,
and spraying crumbs
and cursing, hurled
them from the lawn into the lake
this discov'ry you would make:


On our Earth
of all that's heinous 
this is most:
a stone dead bread,
a chillèd toast.

As you can see, my grief was so great that I was required to do singular injustice to the English language and poetry itself. The moral is clear. What goes into a toaster must come out. Do not put in more than the family can scarf down in one sitting. Toast responsibly.

*I refuse to write "syllabi." It's a matter of principle.
**If I had risen earlier, I might've been able to prevent the crime. Let that be a lesson!
***This is rather a stretch. I didn't start writing until after three.