Beware the Ides of March
This morning brought 2 days of newspapers and all seemed to want to return to some semblance of normalcy. And so I sat down to begin my day………..
Ok, so I’m reveling in the return to sanity that comes the day after the low pressure cum blizzard blew through here and deposited its nasty reminder that March is indeed the most fickle of months. My expectations are so completely unaligned with what has been deposited here – white, deep and frigid, that I have to take a day to reposition and recover. This morning the sun is shining and I’m sitting here soaking it all up, along with Callie and Harley who are at this moment engaging in the ritualistic warming of their bodies in their favorite corners of the east side of the house while temperatures outside hover around 17F. Totally unfavorable for mid-March. I too, am doing this.
My five allotted minutes for breakfast brought me to pondering small things – like how, all through my life I have had little moments of awakening to the simplest of pleasures in the culinary sphere of things. Endeavors in the kitchen can pull us to heretofore unforeseen complexities of task, flavor and presentation and, how often do they turn out to be one-time impulses that may delight in the moment and are at once never to be returned to again. And still, on the most primal of levels as the years come and go, we return again and again to the simplest of pleasures for the rewarding combination of minute factors that never disappoint – in this case, warm, crunchy, nostalgic and comforting.
Today, my subject is the simple pleasure of toast. As I sat and had my breakfast in today’s refreshing sunshine and rebounding barometric pressure that began to shake my fog out, I realized that yesterday’s cake was indeed intriguing and aromatically rewarding, and yet a piece of dry toast with a small spoon of marmalade is so much more soulfully satisfying. How does this make sense?
What can account for this seemingly diametrically opposed relationship between complexity and attachment, you say? I’ve sat at many an elegantly appointed and fully flushed breakfast table. I’ve sat and watched my kids devour French Toast and Pancakes and plates of bacon. But, no array of offerings, no matter how broad and elaborate, appeal to me more than the simplest slab of toast. Can one wax poetic about a piece of dry toast, I wonder?
at Le Sirenuse 5/13
Over the decades I have attached myself to many a singular foodstuff that can not be improved upon no matter how much adornment or sophistication is applied to it. A simple spoon of Welsh Heather Honey, a ripe Jersey tomato, a ripe and juicy fresh-picked peach, a simple soft boiled egg (preferably served on the patio at Le Sirenuse) a stem of lemon verbena (deposited at my place surreptitiously by the head chef at Le Sirenuse), fresh picked string beans or a strawberry are among my favorites.
presently, my favorite bread for toast
But, there is something so endearing about a simple piece of toast. And while it seems improbable that I could actually write a blog post about it, I bet I’d find many who would agree. My favorite toast, and I do not indulge very often any more and save for a loaf of freshly-baked Brioche, is the 7 Grain Sprouted Grain variety from Food for Life. This is so much better than any supermarket bread you can find in the “fresh” aisle. Sprouted Grain breads are found in the freezer case, along with English Muffins, too at your local Kings or Whole Foods.
I prefer this dry – yes, no butter. One piece will accompany the eggs, and one will be adorned with a broad swath of marmalade. A cup of strong black tea will be brewing.
image courtesy Emma Bridgewater and me
The English perhaps, have perfected the best aura around tea and toast. Emma Bridgewater memorialized it. I have always been drawn to the repetition of their own ritual, particularly in literature. But, in my own memory, my Mom used to fix me tea and toast if I was at home from school, sick. Back then, we’d dunk our toast in sweetened tea with milk and sometimes we had a variation of cinnamon toast. These are memories like no other. What could be an easier, less expensive, more rewarding tonic right now? (Well, that is short of lifting off the tarmac and banking in the direction of a Caribbean island.)
Well anyway, you get the picture. So for my Rx for this day, and, in fact any day when you have a few moments to sit in the sun with your favorite newspaper and have a leisurely breakfast, and even if it isn’t Sunday, make yourself a piece of toast and a hot steaming cup of strong black tea. Pretend you’re British and gazing out onto the moors. This morning, I’m able to gaze out, for my requisite own 5 minutes, onto my own little moors. In that short time, I’ll try and calculate how many days until we return to the pre-snow conditions that more agreeably resembled Spring. We’ll see in 7 days.
view from my breakfast table.