I Won't Toast to That

If I've watched my television correctly, and I believe I have, people in British sitcoms eat toast a lot. Which is weird, because I fucking love toast. - XMASTIME

As you faithful readers already know by heart, I love toast. I've posted about it a lot.  My Twitter profile lists me as a "future buttered toast restaurateur", so I really don't think I have to prove my toast bona fides to you people.

I for one only accept one thing on my beloved toast: butter. Which is very different from the very Brits whose love for toast I truly admire:

Britain’s cuisine is a patchwork of local ingredients. Thus, to greatly appreciate them all, a rustic Limey tapas is in order. On our dining tables, preservatives, cheeses (we have more varieties than France) and cold cuts advertise the diversity of regional fruits and meats. In the morning, jars of jam — or jelly — as clear as precious stones, from Tiptree in Essex or Wiltshire sit beside chalky Cornish butter and Scotch marmalade. For reasons we daren’t question — in case they’re snatched away from us — all of this is readily available in supermarkets. 

There are goods made solely for the purpose of being on toast. Piccalilli is a sour London Cockney spread of pickled vegetables and mustard. Marmite is a mysterious black lather from Staffordshire, created for the purpose of injuring or enlightening taste buds (its name has come to replace “love it or loathe it.”) If you visit parts of Kent, toast is eaten with Benenden dressing. In the next county, half an hour away, no one has heard of such a thing. In Yorkshire, beans are doused in Henderson’s sauce, engaged in a rivalry with their better-marketed southern neighbor, Worcester. In Glasgow, they might add haggis, scallops, and stovies, and in the valley cottages of the Powys in Wales, a spicy local mustard.

Again, this is utter nonsense. Anything other than butter on toast is disgusting. I will sometimes accept peanut butter, but at least that literally has the word "butter" in it, so.

And yes, after all these years I still allow myself to dream big:

Can someone explain the 2-slice toaster to me? Is this the biggest waste of time since the post-high school handjob? Two measly pieces of bread. Pops up, by the time you've buttered the bread and inhaled it, it's been 6 seconds. So now you want more, but you know you're gonna hafta wait another 2 minutes for another 6 seconds of pleasure. So then you start putting two more pieces in as you take two out, trying to start a smooth cycle. But it never works, you're still standing there anxiously awaiting, let's face it, two slices of bread.

I've seen the 4-slice toaster. A step up for sure, but I think I may start my search for the Holy Grail: the 8-slice toaster. I'm ready for it. Never peeped by humans in it's own natural habitat, but I'm gonna find one and then really start eating some fucking toast. Wish me luck.

 Dream on, young Xmastime!