For Christmas, my Aunt Susan compiled a book of memories for my Great Grandma Mary. This is my contribution:
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The piece of bread had raisins in it. And cinnamon. At Great Grandma Mary’s house, we ate cinnamon raisin toast, which was completely different than the wheat bread we ate at home.
I was very young– too young to now remember any moment surrounding that moment– and I was sitting at the bar in Grandma Mary’s back room. She set a small plate before me with that piece of toast on it, smothered with butter and, I believe, berry jam. I cannot remember what it tasted like, if I liked it, or if it was even toast. (Was it actually an english muffin? Probable.)
I cannot remember my movements throughout that morning, but I can imagine the rooms I had surely walked through: the cream colored guest bedroom with the light blue lamp (that will someday reside in my own home, thank you Grandma); the narrow, shadow-filled staircase; the kitchen with the fantastic pink stove; the warmth of the back room where I ate my toast.
Toast truly reached a new level of elegance when Grandma Mary made it.
- Allison A. Barnes
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