Sunday, August 24, 2014


The smell of comfort.  And anything put upon it -- welcomed.  Toast is paper primed for a poem.  Smell & eat.

1 comment:

  1. Breakfast was eggs and toast with jam and butter. Grampa shaped the eggs like squares with his spatula when we weren't looking, then said they were his special hens that made them. On Sundays we had blueberry pancakes, fresh fruit from the bushes behind the house which we picked with tin cans hung around our necks with string. The huge stove was heated with wood from a pile outside the back door, or blocks of black coal they had delivered once a year. There was always a coffee pot on the burner, and you had to handle everything with a heavy glove until after the heat had left the metal, which took all day. Someone got up before dawn to start the stove, and light the fireplaces, their only source of heat. The fireplaces were big enough to walk into.