Today’s post is dedicated to our community writer Nikki, who publishes her writings on her site centered on mental health and personal observations. Go check it out, no nonsense talk which has been insightful to all her readership.
This post sprung from something Nikki said about toast (it was much more then that) and so I thought why not.
Not just any toast
This is a short story about the origins of this toast (my toast image above). You see, I rarely eat bread, it’s a weekend treat in my quest to avoid too many carbs during the week. As the kettle boiled and I poured the water into the mug, it began overwhelming the teabag. With no control the tea leaves dispersed in a fit of emotion. I was overthinking this too much so left the scene to turn a slice of bread into a toast. As I sat down slowly eating this toast, a revelation shot through my head leaving me paralysed. You see, this was no ordinary slice of toast – it was different; I could taste the love swirling within my mouth. All of a sudden I was transported to it’s journey.
A toast to flavour
The morning before the baker, who worked in a large supermarket was not in a happy mood. That morning he baked bread as normal, packaged it and placed on the wooden shelves for the customers. But he didn’t engage in much conversation with anyone. In fact he stayed at the back today, near the hot ovens that were busily baking the bread. His focus was lost, his attention vacant and all this impacted how his body prepared the fresh bread. If truth be known, he should have admitted his position and been more honest. It had been uncharacteristic of him to behave in that manner, to remain stubborn. He had become a closed book to the only one reader who should have been able to flick to any page without permission.
The tiger sticks were too crusty, the tops of the loaf too crumbly, the croissants showing signs of over baking. On the rare occasion when he did walk out from the back and to the front, the audience of bread looked sad, just like him.
The evening that followed that morning he crept into the bedroom slowly. Every movement was delicate, he didn’t want to be heard or seen. Right there he had a choice, to get dressed and slide into bed or to face up. The rapid exchange of should I, shouldn’t I felt like a colossal wave, and he the sailor having to quickly decide to either forge ahead or turn back. Finally, he sat on the bed and placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. She must have been awake because she turned around that very moment, maybe even before skin made contact with skin. In that embrace between them both, the heavy burden seeped its way out of his body. The platform of life was better stable for him now, like the bread he had expanded in ways he felt comfortable.
He didn’t need to creep around the bed now, there was a bounce in his step. He hopped into bed and feet entwined. The morning after that evening he baked with a renewed passion. He carefully watched each bread rise to the morning occasion. He whistled as he packed each type of bread and carefully placed it on the wooden shelves. He spoke to each and every customer who picked up the bread, asking them what they were going fill it with. Just then his pocket vibrated, his phone displayed a message from his wife which filled his heart with joy; they would no longer be just two.
I’d realised my tea had turned too dark, the teabag had submerged more then it should have, like two souls becoming one. However until the next weekend came along, this toast of love would be a nice reminder, that your mood can be an ingredient in your cooking.