Neon orange rods
glow in the dark
Illuminating the cold pastry
Inside the wee countertop oven.
The digital timer
counts down
From five minutes thirty-two seconds.
I prefer my day old baked goods
Bronzed and heated through.
The alchemy of heat against grains
Plays out in front of my
Eager eyes:
Maillard reaction
Turns amino acids and sugars to melanoidins.
My blond buttermilk biscuit
Acquires caramelized crags
Toasted edges
And
Sizzling pockets of heirloom butter
Seeping from their hiding spots
In and among the many laminated layers.
One minute seventeen seconds remain.
The equator of my biscuit remains
Unchanged
Sturdy
Pale.
I await the buzzer
As the reticent middle
Holds out, preserving its fridge chill
The last stand.
Eight seconds left -
But I pull down the glass door
Stopping the heating element;
It is time.
I slide the scorching puck
Onto my out held plate
Drag a dinner knife
Though its hemisphere
Drop a generous pat of Kerrygold
On each half of steaming round.
As the butter slides across the uneven surface
Of my breakfast bounty
I sit in my swivel chair
By the window in the faint pre-dawn morning
And take my first bite
Inhaling the aroma of
Browned flour and melted fat.
I thank the Maine cows
And the Irish cows
And the Massachusetts bakers
And the Maryland toaster
And my own luck
For the privilege
Of this moment.
