All Souls and my Grandmother's Toast

I don't eat toast much anymore. The convent keeps a good stock of English muffins, and if I eat breakfast at all, it will be one of those. But today was all mixed up. First, we had to pack lunches for our trek to Washington, DC for the investiture, and when I walked out to pick up my coffee cup there was a loaf of my sister's homemade sour dough bread on the counter. So I cut a slice and popped it into the toaster.

It was then that I went back in time. As I started spreading my butter, I realized the toast was hard as a rock. I spread the butter evenly, softly, and then I mashed harder, smashing the bread. My grandmother always smashed the toast when she buttered it. In her kitchen, at a checkered oilcloth, I sat waiting patiently for her to do her magic. After tasting her toast, I never let anyone else butter mine, especially if they spread lightly, never marring the surface. Hers tasted better. I decided that arbitrarily, as kids will with their food preferences.

So I took my first bite of the unsmashed side of my toast. Then a bite of the smashed side. It tasted like my grandmother. Rest in peace, Nana. I said your name yesterday at mass. I said Grampa's name too. Vengeance belongs to the Lord.