Sunday’s pleasure
dense slabs of still-warm German rye
sacrilege with nuts and cranberry
ripped and dipped
into bowls of thick winter soup
bleed into
Monday morning.
Two slices cut thin
tucked into a prized British toaster
smaller than a Mini Cooper
until walnuts just singe.
Hand-molded Beurre de Baratte,
French for fatty, salty, hedonistic
preciousness
recklessly slathered without remorse.
Hoarded tangerine marmalade
from Guru Ram Das Orchard
grown with hippy sunshine and platitudes
moans when unscrewed,
precursing wabi sabi ecstasy of imprecisely chopped skins
the sweet-sour fragrance of young girlishness.
Sea salt to finish.
The bread singing now,
its flavors the high notes of a fermented symphony
resounding against the acoustic ceiling
of my palate
melodious
Monday morning toast.
#bread #toast #breakfast