The Ritual Of Toast
I don’t want a bowl of porridge,
and I’m not foraging around Tesco for eggs fucking benedict.
I don’t need hollandaise before I’m fully conscious.
Breakfast should be quick. Basic. Not a flamboyant hobby.
Just give me toast, thick.
Two slices.
Under the grill.
End of recipe.
No mindfulness. No garnish.
No wanky seeded loaf that looks like rat shit in a crust.
It’s simple,
A must:
white slice,
not that brown, chewy, judgemental shit
that tastes like regret and soil.
And I’ll tell you why
Science.
This isn’t just taste, opinion, whim
or breakfast-based fascism.
No. This is fact.
Einstein. Albert fuckin’ Einstein
shined,
as you know, when it came to intellectual taste.
He said (and this is documented):
“Brown is a waste.”
Quite right.
Einstein.
Not Gary from Slimming fucking World.
There’s more sugar in white, which means
the Maillard reaction kicks in faster,
creating flavour, colour, caramelised joy
while brown bread sits there, sulking like an unbaked brick.
That isn’t my opinion, there’s no need to be coy.
This is physics.
And if you want to argue against Einstein
before 9 a.m.,
good luck with your fucking life choices.
So when you wake up,
scratch whatever you need to scratch,
and stagger toward consciousness
don’t overthink breakfast.
Don’t fucking complicate it.
Don’t turn it into a fucking statement,
a fucking boast,
a fucking Guardian supplement.
Just make fucking toast.
Because toast is easy.
The world is already too full of bollocks,
too full of rules,
too full of people trying to fix things
that weren’t fucking broken in the first place.
Embrace toast.
That’s the point.
However…
It will always disappoint
The Rotation Of Toast
The rotation of toast is based in the field of physics
It’s not just a fall on the floor, it’s a mathematical phenomenon which upsets and amazes
The speed of the rotation is the angular velocity rotating at the gravitational speed of 9.8 meters a second
The height of the worktop for the average human is one hundred and fifty eight centimetres
So T (time) equals the square root of two H (height) over G (gravity)
Which makes 0.39 secs for the rotation of my toast to land butter side down
I frown
Clown
The Theology of Toast
The beauty of toast
is its representation of the world around us.
It doesn’t boast.
It’s a simple piece of bread,
transformed by heat
into a spectrum of civilisation.
Some like it pale and cautious,
others charred with conviction.
The application of heat
is a moral choice
A depiction of self
Your vote cast in the toaster of life.
A slice of bread, reborn,
forms the base of a thousand empires
butter, jam, beans, eggs
Even that shite, Marmite
each staking claim
on its crusted continent.
It can even carries your coffee cup
like a tray,
a humble servant
to the rituals of the day.
And then there’s Sting.
Sting once sang,
“I like my toast done on one side.”
Well, he can fuck off.
The only rule of toast
is equality
each side gets its share of the sun.
That’s what makes it toast,
That’s the policy
not a half-arsed performance of warmth.
Unless, of course,
It’s a sandwich.
Then it’s allowed.
But that’s not what Sting said.
So he can fuck off
to Fuck-Off City,
population: Sting,
and every other smug bastard
who butters before toasting.
Because toast,
real toast,
is democracy in a slice.
It’s life.
Simple. Universal. Honest.
No privilege, no pretense;
Simplicity for your head
Just bread, burnt enough
to mean it.
The Size of Toast
Why blame the bread?
It was never asked to be baked
It was shaped before the first knead
Agreed by a committee of Directors
Based on cost, profit and greed
The Toaster the same
A shame the creators didn’t learn
How to measure its primary concern
The height of the bread
Should have said
The depth of slot
To make the slice hot
These should be co-equal
I don’t want to buy a lesser loaf
Just so the top is toasted
As well as the bottom
The awesome-ness should be complete
An equal crunch
So I can munch
The full slice
Please for all things holy
Just so this lowly consumer
Doesn’t lose his humour
Talk to each other
And discover the beauty of symbiosis
So the prognosis isn’t still
Use the fucking grill