I'm actually preparing a series of posts that deals with issues addressed in The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, but since those thoughts are unfinished at present I thought I'd prime the pump with a matter of perhaps even greater import.
I love toast. I could eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Often, I do. Yes, even dinner. Take, for example, Sunday evenings: many times we (and by "we", I really mean "I") will make a big platter of cinnamon toast for the whole family.
I take that back: sometimes Heather will make it, but her cinnamon toast is substandard when compared to mine. I love you dearly, my pretty little wifey, but you know I'm right. I mean, just think about it: I spread the butter evenly to every corner of the toast, the very edge of each border. I treat toast preparation like any great explorer, willing to go to the limits of space and back. Then, I make sure to sprinkle the cinnamon on the toast while the butter still has its powder-moistening capacity, taking care to spread the cinnamon/sugar mixture evenly, from edge to edge, in like manner as the hallowed butter. It's so good, I can down a piece in just four bites.
But, I digress: I could eat toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Recently, I was reminded just where I got this encouragement from. This custom is, in fact, a Grant family tradition. (For those of you who don't know: Heather's maiden name is Grant). Just last week Heather's father was visiting and I noted that he had toast a lot in the evening. We got to talking about that, so he naturally mentioned that, while Heather was growing up, Joy (Heather's mom) would prepare a big plate of cinnamon toast and a nice pot of tea on, you guessed it, Sunday evenings.
This is why it mystifies me that I am, in fact, a more expert cinnamon toast preparer than Heather. Perhaps it's her subtle way of getting out of the job of making it. Probably. She's a smart cookie.
Speaking of cookies: I'll also have toast for dessert. Why, just last week, we had some pizza for dinner and I thought, "Hm. I need something sweet now." What did I make? Toast! For dessert.
Yes, I know what you're thinking now: "Toast for dessert? Really, Troy. Can't you have more class than that?"
To which I respond: "Hey! Don't knock it unless you've tried it, you little cuisine-snob you." (Take that. Argument won. I think.)
This is why I was happy to have Heather's dad visiting this past week. Cuz he could have toast every night for dessert. And, in fact, most nights he did.
That reassured me: I am not off my rocker, cuz he's not a weird guy. If he can do it, I can do it.
Now, I have always had Kelly's example to follow. Each Monday or Tuesday, when she comes over for staff meeting, she'll pop two pieces of bread into the toaster and toast her little heart out. So, you'd think that her custom would reassure me. But it doesn't. And here's why:
She's stark raving mad. 'nuff said.
At any rate, let it be noted, let it be shouted on the rooftops and written in the Lamb's Book of Life: I love toast.
Thus endeth the sermon, extolling the praises of toast.