It feels very apt to write about something sentimental on this typically, drizzly bank holiday Monday after spending the weekend with my family back home.
When we were younger, on a Sunday, to make the thought of going back to school on a Monday more bearable, my dad would help us all toast bread on the fire for an evening treat. Toast is just toast, and we would have it in the week for breakfast, but there was something about the thick-cut pieces of bread, that just tasted and smelt more delicious when toasted on the fire. Those evenings turned a simple piece of bread into an adventure. We secured the bread in between barbecue tongues and let the flames lick and crisp the bread, but if you weren’t paying too close attention, or didn’t turn it enough, sometimes you would end up with rather charred pieces of toast.
Thickly spread with yellow, dairy butter which melted instantly into the crumb and then lavishly topped with raspberry jam, marmalade or my favourite, set honey, until it dripped off the edges. The delicious smell of caramelised toast and such a satisfying crunch when you bite into it, licking the melted butter off your lips. It was even better if it was miserable outside with the rain lashing against the windows, we were all snug inside. With the warm glow of the fire on our faces, we were in a perfect little cocoon in the lounge, watching our favourite Sunday evening family series, whether it be the Phoenix and The Carpet or the Magician’s House. I still think that is how I would spend every Sunday if I could.