I’m obsessed with toast.... there is a strange sensuality with dropping the soft white bread into twin slots, pushing the lever down and feeling a satisfying click as it hits the bottom of it’s long slick groove and then locks into place.
The heat gradually envelops my face, I stay over it, breathe in the aroma, my pulse quickens in anticipation, sweat streaks my cheeks like ripened juice.
I see my image bend on the satiny chrome – performing a simple epicurean task- and inside the core, down there where I cannot see, I sense separate molecules of bread transcend their paleness, ripen and ooze and drift toward gold. I imagine a pair of scented clouds, succulent and contained, rising up and teasing my olfactory senses.
The toastness of toast, its primary grainy essence. Then the toast pops. It takes me by surprise, those two identical slices bounding upward, like a pair of swollen lips, perfectly browned and symbolically (it seems to me) aligned, and bringing every single intake of breath a shock of happiness.
