It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon in late Spring. The family has prepared the big, wooden table outside, under the old oak tree that provides soothing shade for the happy, red-cheeked children and their old and wise grandparents. They’re all looking at the mother emerging from the house in eager anticipation of the big, warm, steaming loaf of – flat, white, limp, square, supermarket-bought toast she carries on a sorry plastic plate.
Seriously, England, Australia, New Zealand, America, Ireland. What the fuck? I know you can do better than this. Why do you refuse to bake good, nutritious bread like us mainland Europeans? France does it. Switzerland does it. Austria, Italy, hell, even the Czechs are capable of baking awesome, crusty yet moist, filling, delicious loaves of awesomeness. Not to mention German bread, bread so tasty even Jesus refused to break any other bread with his apostles than Sauerteig.
Don’t get me wrong: I love toast. I do! It’s ideal for lazy Sunday mornings, ideal for soaking up the yolk of my eggs, delicious with white cheese and avocado. Sometimes, I just don’t want to bother with things like crust or any distinct taste – toast is an amazing invention. But it’s not what I would call bread.
Do you know why toast is called toast? Because it’s made for being toasted. But apparently the English-speaking part of this world likes to disregard this as completely irrelevant. Biting into a slice of un-toasted toast is like chewing on a cotton ball. Only writing this down gives me goosebumps.
And America, seriously, how can you cut off the “crust” from something that barely has any taste already? At least you can see some faint resemblance of toast’s distant relatives if you keep the brown rim on it. But without it, I’m sorry, it’s not even toast anymore. It’s a white edible square.
Germany out. Peace.
Do: Stop calling it bread.
Make: Some real one, the internet is full of easy recipes.
Don’t: Take me too seriously.