I know you’ll think I’m arrogant and a braggart, but facts are facts. There is one thing at which I am without question the best in the world at doing. It has made me the man I am today. It has gotten me and my family through some hard times and helped us celebrate the good times. My skill? Making toast.
It’s kept my kids from running away from home on several occasions. When I royally screw up as I so often do and my wife of nearly twenty-five years is angry at me, I know I can break her down and get us back on track by simply asking, “Can I make you some toast dear?” Plunking a couple English muffin halves in the machine and turning out some perfect pieces has been the magic elixir for us.
As I’ve traveled, I’ve served my toast in several parts of the country, leaving in my wake questions about technique and frustrations that I don’t visit often enough.
At one point, the Warden for Texas’ Death Row had me on speed dial because so many of their inmates were requesting my specialty, 12 grain toast, medium. Making those guys’ last meals special was something I was glad to do, but I finally had to stop. Unfortunately, there are too many people on Death Row in Texas and filling their orders was cutting into my free time. That and the toast didn’t travel well, leaving the prisoners disappointed. I’ve never forgiven myself for allowing my quality to slip like that.
A top chef would be probably be offended if you asked for ketchup, but I don’t mind. I just ask that the butter be soft enough to not tear the bread.
Everybody’s got to be good at something.