Along with great dark chocolate ice cream, toast is one of the few things that still calls to me since we changed our diet.
Not just any toast – good toast made from slices hand cut from a loaf that’s been made by true baker, not mass produced in a factory, square shaped and tasteless – ‘plastic’ bread.
Granary…sourdough…good rustic white…I really don’t mind which…
Toasted to perfection – crisp on the outside and around the edges of the crust but with that comforting, warm chewiness of freshly baked bread in the middle…
Covered in golden butter (salted of course)…none of this ‘spread’ in its many manipulated, chemically-enhanced and / or ‘reduced fat’ guises.
Yup – ‘good toast’.
And this morning, I decided to have some for breakfast at one of our favourite independent coffee house haunts.
To be totally honest, we sort of gently slid off the wagon starting late November last year, ably assisted by my birthday, a trip to New York early December, followed by Christmas, New Year and finally my sister’s birthday weekend last week.
Thinking about it, we didn’t so much as slip as sit on the edge of the tailgate bit at the back, holding on by our fingertips, getting jostled around and watching out for any particularly big potholes that could throw us off it completely.
Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t turn into bread, pasta and french fry guzzling monsters – more like discerning nibblers…