A Slice of Toast

I wrote the other day that there is nothing finer than a nice slice of toast with marmalade.    It was what my father always had for breakfast and some of my earliest memories are associated with this simple dish.   Dad was always up before dawn and, on the mornings when I had crept into my parents' bed after a nightmare, he would light the fire in the kitchen hearth before he brought Mum and me toast and marmalade as we sat up in the double bed in the recess.    I can remember the light crunch as I bit into it, the slurps needed to stop the melted butter dripping off, the tang of the orange peel and, as I snuggled down again, the rub of stray crumbs against my limbs in the depths of the sheets as I fell asleep once more.

Without thinking today, I found myself making toast and marmalade at 3.30 pm, exactly thirty-eight years after my father died.    Funny how a slice of toast can bring back a slice of life, and evoke such strong memories of someone so deeply missed.


Here's the link to the pieces I have written about him during recent years on this site . . . here.