This is a fun holiday bit most of you may have already seen, but when it's good . . . it's worth a repeat.
12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS:
CAROL OF THE BELLS:
SILENT NIGHT:
December 19, 2007
December 17, 2007
Butter side down
The warm tendrils of heat issued forth with their tiny desert-like apparition of bending the solid wall behind them. As if looking through a toast inspired mirage, I awaited the warm, buttery bread that would soon become part of me.
Just like that old saying "you are what you eat", I hoped to become warm and toasty. But not through direct heat.
I slicked on a thin coating of butter (you know, the yellow stuff that comes in a jumbo tub from your local market that isn't butter but we call it that anyway).
I patiently waited. (Okay, we all know that patience part was a lie.)
Then, rewarded for my diligent effort to stare down the toaster in order to force production of toast at a quicker pace, the rising bread, cradled in a hot pair of strange hands rose to the apex of it's duties and I took the toast.
So hot that my fingertips burned, I was blissfully looking forward in anticipation of that wonderful smelling oatmeal bread brushing back my tastebuds for something truly special.
Alas, tragedy struck. Through no fault of my own, the toast began its descent toward the floor.
It had a resounding smack as the butter temporarily compelled it to stick to the less than pristine floor by the dog bowls.
I didn't cry, I didn't waver and I didn't equivocate. THIS IS TOAST, PEOPLE!!! TOAST, I SAY!!!
So I picked it up. 30 Second rule, ya know?
Scraped off the butter and an epidermal layer of toasted bread.
Then, I re-applied the butter and awaited a joyous heaven of hot bread.
In the words of John Milton, it was "Paradise Lost", the toast had grown cold and no longer tasted anything like I had imagined.
The dog was grateful. She doesn't usually get toast with her Alpo.
I think she even smiled. A buttery, warm smile on a cold day.
Score?
Me - nothing, toast - 1, and resident canid - 99.
The trifecta of life complete, I consoled myself with a bit of scrambled egg omelette and hashbrowns. Nothing like a Denver consolation prize.
Just like that old saying "you are what you eat", I hoped to become warm and toasty. But not through direct heat.
I slicked on a thin coating of butter (you know, the yellow stuff that comes in a jumbo tub from your local market that isn't butter but we call it that anyway).
I patiently waited. (Okay, we all know that patience part was a lie.)
Then, rewarded for my diligent effort to stare down the toaster in order to force production of toast at a quicker pace, the rising bread, cradled in a hot pair of strange hands rose to the apex of it's duties and I took the toast.
So hot that my fingertips burned, I was blissfully looking forward in anticipation of that wonderful smelling oatmeal bread brushing back my tastebuds for something truly special.
Alas, tragedy struck. Through no fault of my own, the toast began its descent toward the floor.
It had a resounding smack as the butter temporarily compelled it to stick to the less than pristine floor by the dog bowls.
I didn't cry, I didn't waver and I didn't equivocate. THIS IS TOAST, PEOPLE!!! TOAST, I SAY!!!
So I picked it up. 30 Second rule, ya know?
Scraped off the butter and an epidermal layer of toasted bread.
Then, I re-applied the butter and awaited a joyous heaven of hot bread.
In the words of John Milton, it was "Paradise Lost", the toast had grown cold and no longer tasted anything like I had imagined.
The dog was grateful. She doesn't usually get toast with her Alpo.
I think she even smiled. A buttery, warm smile on a cold day.
Score?
Me - nothing, toast - 1, and resident canid - 99.
The trifecta of life complete, I consoled myself with a bit of scrambled egg omelette and hashbrowns. Nothing like a Denver consolation prize.
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