When I was a kid...
If the butter was cold I'd scrape the top of the stick with the knife into curls thin enough to spread on my toast leaving rows of concave trenches along the creamy yellow bar. This would irritate my mom to no end. Thou shalt not mutilate the butter.
Or I'd pick up the stick of butter and swipe it across my toast. Leaving crumbs, of course, on the end of the stick. And again, "Who did this to the butter!"
Or I'd put the butter plate in the microwave to soften it so I wouldn't leave the telltale deep plowed furrows or even crumbs. Except it'd melt into a puddle. No escaping now.
Thirty-some years later the butter in my house is always a mess, and I don't care. The bath towels are not folded lengthwise perfectly in thirds, then in half and half again making identical stacks that fit precisely in the color-sorted linen closet. There are at least seven loads of laundry waiting to be done, probably ten, in the laundry room and quasi-sorted in piles on the hall floor. And I don't have the foggiest notion what's for dinner next week.
I'm glad the butter is a mess, it makes me smile.
1 year ago