Letter B, Letter B, Letter B, Letter B

There will be an answer. Letter B.

At the farmer’s market we bought bun bread. Bun bread? Dunno either, but it made for a tasty BLT. Quizzing the bread man for the third time on the bun bread’s sweetness factor, he grabbed a knife in exasperation and hacked away at a loaf. Poor loaf. “Taste it, taste it,” he begged. Well, it did taste a little on the sweet side for a BLT, but I bought a loaf and skidaddled, cowed. Cowed by karma. Poor loaf.

The bacon came from the market too and the nice organic meat man let me trade a velvety, wrinkled dollar bill for a shiny gold dollar coin to take home to my kid. Cost me extra for the bacon. Seven bucks. Burned about $2.53’s worth in the first batch. It’s not wise to walk away from sizzling bacon.

Ever so slightly sweet, toasted Arnold’s thin-slice is perfect buttered for caviar.

Bread/butter/caviar
= softly-sweet/dairy-rich/lifeforce-salty
= Bread/mayo/bacon.
The formula balances. Get my drift? Bun bread BLT’s = summer Sunday supper.

When I had a hockey playing boyfriend he took me to games. He liked having me there next to him, but did not want me shouting. He did not want me shouting, “Put that bun in the oven!!” Bun in the oven, biscuit in the basket, muffins in a bundle, knickers in a twist. Whatever, right? It’s the exuberance that counts. Kinky Friedman says, “Get your biscuits in the oven and your pucks in the bed.” (Or something like that.) Hockey’s not big in Texas, but the biscuits are. Buns too.

The Bunn-O-Matic will no longer do, will it? Oh no, now we have to have good coffee. When I was a waitress the orange-handled-carafe kind was just fine. Everyone needs a bunn-o-matic. Bring me a bunn, please. Made just for me. Fresh and warm. With fine bunnaroma.