Random Thoughts: Bread

Standard

​​I’m really not supposed to be eating that much bread, if any at all. But bread is….delicious. In all its forms and varieties. Not croutons. Croutons are delicious, but they are most certainly not bread, a discussion I recently had on Twitter with Alyssa Mastromonaco and also with my therapist. Croutons are croutons. 

I should really be eating oatmeal for breakfast, oatmeal with cranberries, but I’m waiting for a ride, and I didn’t think I had time to make and eat oatmeal and of course, a cup of tea with the oatmeal because what’s the point of boiling the water for oatmeal and not having some for tea, so instead I had some toast. With butter. I usually like cream cheese, but we have Kerrygold Irish butter left from St. Patrick’s Day’s Irish Soda Bread, so I’m using that on my plain old wheat toast.

Sometimes I’ll have another piece of toast, which I shouldn’t have in the first place, because the butter (or whatever’s on it) tastes so good, so I’ll want a little bit extra. Since I’m not supposed to have the bread, I think maybe I should just take a spoon and have a little extra butter with or without jam, and now I’m realizing that I should have put jam on the toast and with the butter, but I didn’t, and I’ve already had too much bread that I can’t go back for more.

Should I just eat the butter then? Would that be better than the extra slice of toast? Or would that be worse than the bread? Worse, I think.

Ah well, breakfast is over, and my ride is on their way.

Sweet Potatoes are My Comfort Food

Standard

​Whenever comfort food is brought up, whether it’s a writing assignment or discussion or online meme, my head goes straight to chicken noodle soup and/or Kraft Macaroni & cheese in the blue box, although not eaten together of course. I will eat the mac & cheese as a leftover, but there is nothing like the taste of the macaroni from the blue box, hot and creamy, right when it’s first made.

Out of the pot even.

However, for real comfort, my heart goes to an evening that I was probably about eleven, maybe as old as twelve, where I am sitting in my mother’s bed, my legs sticking out from a nightgown that I hated wearing, with my back against the headboard.

The only light coming brightly from the hallway and that dim blue from the television just beyond the end of the bed. I was watching whatever happened to be on. There were not many options for change before remote controls, and with everyone else in the family downstairs, I was stuck with whatever it was.

On my lap was a plate, and on the plate, I am using my fork to smoosh around a thick piece of butter melting on a warm, soft, sweet potato. The orange flesh absorbing each bit of butter dripping off the pat. Long after this day, I’ve seen people put cinnamon and brown sugar, even caramel and marshmallows on sweet potatoes, but for me all it needs is the hot insides and the sweet, melting butter. 

Even today, the perfect, succulent, sweet potato brings me back to that sick day in bed, the smell, the taste, the warmth from the plate on my legs still warming me decades later.