I burned toast this morning, something that I have not done for years. It was the thin little top of a loaf fresh out of the breadmaker.

As I pulled it out of the toaster, I got this incredible flashback to my childhood home. The question is: did we burn a lot of toast back then? It was a very strong sensation, like the smell of crayons, or of a certain type of soil that takes me back to (likely) a cottage we rented when I was a child.

On top of this, I pictured my mother’s hands breaking burnt bits off the edge of a piece of toast, into the garbage disposal in our uniquely shaped matte stainless steel sink.

It’s her birthday today. And my first thought of her is scraping burnt toast.

Happy Birthday Mom!

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