The Marmalade Of Our Mornings

There are times when the very kitchens of our souls are overflowing with the effluvia of our meandering stager through the days that fall down on us like the contents of a badly-stocked cupboard as we go about opening each one searching for that marmalade of our mornings that we are sure we bought home from the supermarket of all our dreams and desires.

Those strange kinds of herbs and spices, even those jars of Marmite that no-one ever admits to buying that rain down on our heads whenever we attempt to open those cupboards of promises, they all seem to be there just to prevent the discovery of that golden marmalade that makes the toast of our lives go beyond being merely cooked bread and into the realms of the numinous and transcendent.

It is all to easy to forget the power of toast when the sensuous beguilements of breakfast cereals and their promises of mornings of almost orgasmic ecstasy fill the commercial breaks of our most holy TV schedules. The promise of heath, happiness and almost supernatural levels of naughtiness from an equally cereal-enriched partner of all our fantasies seem merely a spoonful away, but, these days, we know how the promises that always seem so enticing are always the ones that turn out to be the hollowest.

All we do know, all we can ever know, about this world with any certainty is that toast has never lied to us.