Toast, and: An Element of Style

Toast The night I tore out the kitchen sink, the old counter board and musty flour bins, the framing studs, lath and plaster, I found tucked between the wall and floor a two cent stamp, grocery receipts, razors in thin paper, a magazine snipping showing a school boy facing a plate full of toast. A caption read: "Put the toast in his notebook." I mosey among stars on my break, confident under the crisp, magnificent indifference. In counter tops I like butcher board veneer. I like cupboard doors with a natural wood finish. I like my bread swathed with apricot jam. Though I was never that good of a boy, the caption was too bizarre to ignore. The sink works. The notebook is filling. Stars are spotless and abundant . . . This is where the toast pops up. John A. Holbrook Missoula, Montana 234 An Element of Style Grandpa, those mornings after, never thought to thank grandma for steeping the best mint tea ever in the bright blue china teapot in their cosy rose-wood stove kitchen. How he loved fuzz on his tongue, stooped this time like he was, stopped flat by a crack, chips of her teapot on his lap, grin a great flop, brains a real mess on the spot. And grandma, war bonnet on in the back yard, apron hitched, intent in a mist of deep mint by the faucet, the hot iris, —laughs, cries, the old toad tripped up good this time in his socks. Hackles up, smirks flush, sky the same old blue bouquet, sun spoiling, a day now and then boiled up like this. And how it burned, over-cooked on a dish, hot quip, limp fish, on and on,—all that twilight air rolling with a shrug, late snack, light hug, —sometimes a kiss, a kiss. John A. Holbrook Missoula, Montana 235 ...