Sacred toast

If one were to define ritual as: “a repetitive act carried out with awareness, loving attention to detail and a touch of ceremony,” my life could be said to have acquired several rituals.

Seemingly non-religious, these common, daily secular acts are so full of devotional habit that they are elevated to a sacred status.

Most often, every day begins with a morning walk to the Peace Garden for a quiet, prayerful sit at the Ancestral Midden followed by a walk over to the Peace Fire where I circle to each of the four compass points and welcome in the day by reaching to the sky and voicing a greeting.

(In other words, an average sort of ritual for an average sort of person beginning an average sort of day.)

Invariably, this little stretch to the morning sun stirs and awakens within me the pleasant anticipation of returning back to the house for the smell of toast and the pressurised hissing sound of coffee in the expresso maker. My gait picks up considerably, much like a horse returning home, as I sense the second, though very important, ritual of the day coming on.

In fact, at Windgrove, the highest ranking ritual has to be this one: the Toast/Coffee ritual; a most favoured (and most flavoured) ritual that borders on the addictive (but is kept out of the ranks of addiction because of the pureness of my light heart).

I’ll not describe the coffee making portion of this ritual; instead, lets go straight to the crunchy stuff.

When it comes to the making of toast, I rotate the choice of bread to be toasted, having found out that boredom will set in and my enthusiasm for this ritual will suffer if I stick with one type of bread only.

(Sort of like, when I was living in Moscow it was always helpful in maintaining my sense of the spiritual if I was able to buy at the candle stall, upon entering the Russian orthodox church, any of several different sizes of candles to light and place at any of several altars dedicated to any of several saints.)

Therefore, it is imperative to have on hand, either on top of the fridge or in the freezer, “Two pound” and “16 hour” loaves of bread from the Hobart baker, Jackman & McRoss, organic sprouted wheat sourdough and nut and raison breads from the Summer Kitchens bakery and, at least, one loaf of organic rye sourdough from Healthybake. All five are of a solid consistency, exhibiting a good weighty feel and excellent toasting capabilities.

By necessity, since I only have a six burner commercial grade gas stove for cooking (no electricity), the choice of toaster is a stainless steel one of the kind sail boats would have in their kitchen galleys; one where the bread inclines at an angle like a lean-to over the flame and becomes all nice and toasty brown with just a hint of burn.

Promite or veggiemite? No way. My toppings are sweet. Honey always on one or two slices and the choicest of jams over a good layering of butter on the others. Four pieces of toast and a giant mug of double expresso all fit onto the one tray and I carry this over to my favourite chair in the corner.

Here, I sit down and slowly savour every sip of coffee and munching of toast. My mind follows my gaze around the room or through several windows. My reading glasses stay off my face. Only when I have finished eating will I begin the third ritual of the day: reading for half an hour or so. Only then will I head out to the studio to begin the next ritual.