Friday, September 14, 2012
In-class writing 9/13
The toast pops up as my great-grandmother stands in the middle of the small kitchen - her small kitchen - making breakfast. It has become a ritual, a routine. She stands in a long blue robe, faded from years of being worn each morning, white hair perfectly curled, as she leans over the yellowed white Formica countertops. Steam rises as she pours herself a cup of Folders. Her toast sits on a small plate she has had since the 60s accompanied by a red-lidded jar of J.I.F. After she takes a sip of her dark black brew, she moves on to applying an even, almost perfect later of peanut butter on the golden brown toast. Those two smells, the earthy coffee and nutty scent fill the small, bright room. I sit watching on a stool propped against the wall, out of the way, as I wait for my Strawberry Poptarts to be toasted to their own golden brown perfection.