Friday, February 25, 2011

We've been late to issue protocols on the buttering of toast

Have you noticed, how desperately we have been failing our undoubted destiny, to preach to the choir a new Rule or several dozen, on the lactic anointment of one's charred and chosen morning slab of grain? Yet here we are, having crossed not less than the inaugural bi-annum of this page, without having issued the slightest ukase on preserving our regard. Can this be continued, much less condoned, given the reader's anxious appetite for the humiliation of the humble? Our pastorship weighs heavy on the hour, our flock in prurient lowing, growing weary of delay. Meanwhile, society's first line of defense, the breakfast table, tips toward anarchy.

Bring us, then, dear readers, your tired and musty paddles of that spreadship, and we shall assay them with such gratifying contempt, as to lower you to the Crown's abandoned vaults at Garrard, for something grotesque enough to salve diurnal bread with the supplest churnings of Normandy. And in glazing's quiet gavotte we shall command you, in sallies forth and back of lapping's soft acoustic, so that the much impasto'd ceiling of the simplest breakfast nook, and of the fêted cranium, might stir more gently to cessation of the fast. It galls us worthily to've left you to a crude dispatch of dawn.

Gather, darlings. The treacle of our testament is warm to waft delight, impartial and more provident in ormolusive light. Delicious shall our edicts be, of anechoic gush, that swells to fill the golden bowl, expedient to flush. Exult to hear how we consult the substance of your tears, translating them to hubris you may stuff between your ears. We offer regulation, thus, to soothe the direst need, for codes of frantic cognizance t'identify the breed.

How perfectly unclotted, then's, our ration of life's cream, to let its variegation represent the striver's dream. We pour it, copious, from the tap to salve our boredom's scream, reluctant to beat back against the silly, frilly stream. Bring now, the loaf, we should with butter, toast; we'll score it with the riddle of the griddle that we boast. Belovèd is that implement with which we flame the host, to rest upon our plate to mark the way we love to coast. 

I'll favour you with codicils of rules from time to time, to keep abreast of others in the nursery that they mime.


  1. If I am doomed to the forgotten Crown's vaults at Garrard, then so be it! King Island butter for me!

  2. Why, Dink, you've surfaced, and with a teat to treat your toast the gods intended their terroir to turn your way.

  3. And those of us who only take coffee in the morning? What shall we do?

  4. you have to continue spreading out, as you well know Sir. I think your rhyming is doubly delicious- and this is your best home by far- what does One have to say that the Other can not? the readers that come- may go- return for succor that they coud'n drink elsewhere- bringing other fellows along for nourishment. looking beyond the loaves and fishes, and languishing flesh- there is a feast with wine flowing and brilliant conversation.

  5. As always, your imagery is arresting to the vision and attractive to the thoughts expressed both original and quoted.

  6. Dear Greek, You're perfectly entitled to apply for a regulation respecting your eccentric breakfast habits, but arrangements need to be made in advance and they are very expensive. For now, rest assured that our edicts on toast do not extend to compelling its consumption.

    Dear PGT, I noted that you played with some scrumptious stanzas, yourself, for Prada's sake -- tempting one to speculate, that rhyme rises in necessity as content plummets! :) But that was a very witty way of handling that showing's constraint of imagination, so here endeth the comparison. Nice of you to encourage our little experiments, however, and I appreciate the permission!

    Anon, what can I say? These people wander up, telling stories. Thank you ~

  7. Whoa! I'm registering this last note at 4:30 EST, implying either a new puppy in house or breakfast at a decent hour in Paris. Either way, I'm staggered that you'd take the time to read the page - but, thanks!

    Now, do we have a name yet? To bridge the gap beween these poles, I'd suggest Crusty for a Pompey-gendered muffin or Babette for the alternative, particularly if she's a palie.