Category Archives: Toast Poast

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From the mouths of babes. In my case, from the pencil of an eleven-year-old.

He took a workshop called “Puzzling It Out” and brought home everything I have ever needed to know.

BUTTER ON TOAST

The steps to reach the higher ground of buttered toast are these:
1. Start on the back of the paper.
2. Go deep into your fantasies.
3. Draw upon a wide and deep scope of powers.
4. Put it down on paper. In detail. Press hard on the lead. Full speed towards collective fantastical unconscious.
5. Now. Sharpen your pencil, sharpen your focus and take your intellect for a circle around the Venn Diagram.
6. Follow the instructions. With detours. Take time for a nice lunch.
7. Pay attention to your instincts. If you need to ask for directions, ask. Then steep outside information in your personal brew.
8. Look for your destination at the intersection of preparedness and opportunity. Hot toast and available butter.
9. Turn in. Hard. Gravel flying.

Puzzles, mysteries, queries, questions melt. For a minute. Butter on Toast.

I think you gotta get these in pairs, like Mudflap Girls. Wouldn’t want your dolly toast to be lonesome.
Toasty Bendable from CurlzGirl Carolyn

A mudflap girl would look good on toast. This girl on toast. Like this. Think of Jesus as a place holder.

Call me the mistress of the mutual admiration society. A card carrying, flag waving, allegiance pledging member of too many to count. You count. I’ll bet you count better than anyone in the world cause you are brilliant. As brilliant as I. As crunchly warm and slippery brilliant as two foods fated to merge, butter oozing deliciously into the crispy crevasses of toast. Brilliant.

Fuzzy Grapefruit on Etsy

For Valentine’s Day, taking note of a few of my lovablely favorite things:

My son’s non-relationship with perfectionism.

The spaciousness of the mind.

Winter, with the promise of spring and summer to follow.

Butter.

Bread.

The space between butter and bread.

Currlllzzz

When he was small  we attempted…. tried,  coerced, bribed, teased, chided, and connived…him into… well, to teach him a bit of responsibility taking. I started with a very short, important phone number. Not that he wasn’t with an adult at all times, an adult who would be in charge of the phone, an adult who would be doing the “dialing” were it necessary. Still, it seemed like a good idea. I read it somewhere, and other mothers at the bus stop were bragging about all that their children could repeat by rote. Baaaa. Baaaa. Call me a sheep in mother’s clothing.

“When there is an emergency, such as a fire, what do we do? We call 9 1 1.”
“9 9 1, Mom.”
“No, 9 1 1.”
“9 9 1, Mom.”
“No, 9 1 1.”
I set it aside for several years.

Dial ahead to now. We are on the threshold of buying him a phone. Will I ever see his face again? More likely just the top of his head:(