I am still thinking of Emitt Rhodes and still spinning his record, spinning his songs into the still air of our home. “You must live till you die. You must feel to be alive.” Which begs all sorts of questions concerning semantics. What is it to feel? How does one define being alive? Sentience, what is it good for? Absolutely something!
For whom does the bread toast? It toasts for thee. Sandwich people (everyone!), whether one feels the need to make toast for oneself or a toast steward, aka cook, is dispatched, for love or money, to do it for you, it toasts for thee. Toast, the Maillard effect, the warming, browning, transformational process of heat waves on plant sugars is the kickstarter, catalyst, miracle of cooking.
I feel it. The bread feels it. The toaster basks in sentient satisfaction and the triple hit of generosity – anticipating the act, the toasting itself, then reflection on toast buttered, or not, and eaten with gezellig.
A mild variant is the mom I would like to be. Am I? No. As the snake oil of a face cream salesman in Nassau chirped, “Ooh, spicy.” He was not laying a compliment on me. Have I done my son a giant disservice by reinforcing reactivity? Yes indeed I have. His gap year(s) could be seen as an opportunity to create a gap between then and now. A chance to dial it all back, become a milder variant of myself and hope for a little less friction and push back. Only time will tell, as it does always, the slow reveal that is child rearing.
The Lunch Encounter 