When we made our way to the kitchen, I asked what was for breakfast. The reply, "toast." I congratulated myself because I had obviously come across as a woman who requested a no-hassle breakfast request.
And as I put the bread in the toaster I was suddenly reminded of my grandmother. A morning, as I recall, that my sister and I were at her house when my parents went out of town (which happened like once in my childhood). I was maybe four years old. I woke up, got dressed and cleaned up, and went into the kitchen. Now, in my kitchen, walk in and make yourself some coffee (which I don't drink), tea (which I sometimes drink), or breakfast (which I usually don't make or eat), but in my grandmother's kitchen, you just didn't walk in and do anything.
|Me, about three, on swing set|
This morning I was having toast. I recall sitting at the table (covered in plastic, by the way) with my sister as I waited for my bread to toast. It was bright in the kitchen; the sunlight was streaming in through the window above the sink and the window over by the stove, and the back door was open. And then in a flash, the toaster buzzed and out shot the toast. I don't mean a little bit, but literally flew in the air as if it had been shot from a rocket. It was the craziest thing and scared us silly. But we all had a good chuckle about it.
And so when I pushed the lever down on the toaster this morning, I couldn't but help smile a just little at the memory of toast at my grandmother's house. . . .
¡Hasta la proxíma vez!