Slightly scorched bacon. Plump, enthusiastic, and sliced white bread. Drenches of melted butter. A few crunches of pepper grounds. The oversensitive smoke sensor was hastily quelled. The bread was brought the day before and refreshed in the oven because no madman goes to a bakery on a Sunday. Served with ritual, bang on time, never without fail. Every. Single. Goddam. Sunday morning at 11am. Garnished with family, complaining about Dad reading @thesundaytimes poking fun at my sister, talking about the week ahead. All wrapped up in a cosy cocoon of love. Immediately followed by seconds. Your family probably does it differently. Where is the egg? The brown sauce? The RED sauce? But this is mine, is ours, and it can’t be beaten.
Shown here with @gingerpigltd smoked back bacon and @breadaheadbakery white sandwich load that had a posher name that i didn’t write down. Not in shot: nostalgia and thanks.