If only ninjas lived in my kitchen. They would sneak in stealthily, creep about on silent toes while hidden fingers produced ample nourishment. And leave without a trace. I would enter the kitchen, set about my business, in carefree ignorance of my ninja housemates. If only my children were ninjas (black masks optional), they would know how to make Secret Toast.
Secret Toast is a careful recipe of minimal ingredients, yet it apparently takes enormous skill to make. When you make Secret Toast, you leave nary a trace beyond the yeasty waft of comfort. But by the time the homey aroma reveals your task, you’ve vanished in thin air. Poof.
My children make all-caps TOAST. Yelling Toast. Sherlock Holmes would be offended by their inability to cover their tracks. A half-blind, feeble-minded dolt could crack this case. A trail of crumbs a mile wide litter the counters (Why two? How much space does it take to butter toast?) Ah, the knives (again two!) lay plain claim to butter and jam. But if there was any doubt, significant samples of both condiments blob the area in front of the toast. Yes, the toaster, the epicenter of Yelling Toast. An explosion of burnt crusts and crumbs too large to be called proper crumbs but apparently too small to be considered worthy of a plate. A plate? Who am I kidding? There couldn’t possibly have been a plate involved in this preparation. Oh, wait. But look again. There it is, unrinsed and globular, in the sink. Next to the softening butter and warm jar of jam, so close to their home in the refrigerator, but yet so far away.
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