The politics of toast

Homemade bread and homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam tempered with chemical-rich JIFF peanut butter.

When I lived in New York, going out for Sunday brunch was part of the weekend routine. I usually ended up at either Petite Abeille in Chelsea or Le Pain Quotidien in Soho, both of which served excellent poached eggs and artisanal bread baskets to the upwardly mobile.

I don’t bother going out for brunch anymore. Because around here there’s nowhere to go except Country Kitchen, which serves buffet-style powdered eggs and Walmart bread to folks on their way to…Walmart.

Still, a gal likes to indulge on Sunday mornings. So this morning, I treated myself to two pieces of toast. I know what you’re thinking: Whoa! You go, girl! What’s next? A spoonful of Metamucil? Bear with me. The bread was homemade whole-wheat, lovingly baked by Jake. The jam was made from strawberries I picked myself and rhubarb given to me by my neighbor, “Buckmaster” Sam.

Now, this admission either makes you hungry…..or makes you want to hurl from the preciousness of it all.

As I sunk my teeth into the dense, berry-soused toast, it occurred to me that what I was putting into my mouth is exactly why people criticize the slow food/localism movement as a bastion of grand, organic-y fascism.  Eating this way is perceived as snotty and elitist, and not realistic for the average suburban-dwelling American.

Fair enough. But what’s the difference between making this stuff from scratch and paying for a similar artisanal experience at a restaurant like Le Petite Abeille? Aren’t they sorta one and the same? And does anyone—redneck or not—really like powdered eggs? Also, wasn’t making jam and bread yourself considered the norm, not the exception not so long ago?

As I looked at my breakfast, it occurred to me that I was…..psychoanalyzing toast.  I was becoming that douchebag who fetishizes food.  So I quickly slathered on some JIFF peanut butter.  To keep it real.