Bread, Butter, and Memories
We know that everything has its roots in childhood. And during a tasting, a conversation took me so far back that I felt compelled to write. To share what had crossed my mind, without pretending to decipher every memory. It all came down to a simple slice of warm bread with a pat of butter.
The Joys of Childhood
I like my bread sliced thick enough to have a good chew to it—soft on the inside, crispy on the outside. I like it while it’s still warm, when its aroma fills the kitchen even before I sit down. I already know the crunch and resistance of the crust against my teeth, followed by the softness of the crumb. Even the knife has a role to play. I take a pat of butter and place it on the bread. But I never spread it all the way across the slice. That would be as if the moment had already passed. As if I’d prepared for its end before savoring its beginning. I put just enough for the first bite.
The butter begins to melt and soak into the bread. The surface is still cool. I take a bite. A crescent-shaped mark from the first bite appears on the edge of the slice, like a crescent moon. And something comes back to me. A sense of comfort, certainly. Childhood, happiness. Perhaps also an old anxiety, something less sweet than the taste itself. What am I rediscovering? A memory? A sensation? A repressed emotion? Is the buttered slice of bread my Proustian madeleine? I don’t have a clear answer. For once, this vagueness suits me just fine.
Playing hooky
One thing is certain: this moment is mine. It belongs to no one else. I don’t need anyone to understand why this slice of toast means so much to me. Do I appreciate it for what it’s worth? The question almost makes me smile. I’m still on the first bite, and here I am already wondering about how I find happiness. So I pick up the knife again. Another pat of butter, a little further along on the bread that’s grown lukewarm. The butter melts more slowly, and the sensation changes. I sense more freshness and texture. The bread still crunches. I continue this little ritual with a level of attention I hadn’t planned on giving it.
Then comes the last bite—perhaps the most intense one. Precisely because it signals the end, and the craving is no longer the same. I’d like to prolong this moment, but I know that another slice of toast wouldn’t quite prolong it: it would simply start a new one. It’s strange that I felt the urge to write about this. Bread, butter, a knife, and a few bites. Yet the emotions are there. A Sunday breakfast. A snack eaten on the sly. That feeling of playing hooky, of allowing yourself a few minutes that fall outside the day’s schedule.
Proust’s Madeleine
This, perhaps, is my Proustian madeleine. I can’t pinpoint a single memory, a specific date, or a particular place associated with it. But I recognize the emotions it stirs in me. And that morning, in my kitchen, it was a moment of great happiness. To all of you who’ve read along with me right up to the very last bite, thank you for taking a day off from school with me.
