fresh

it's a warm aroma of comfort and home, lost days of childhood, that allured me.

nothing remarkable to look at, brown lumps upon the cooling rack that are

still warm in my hand. the underside soft, the crust firmer, the inside no doubt the squishy texture i remember.

my eyes closed i give a gentle squeeze, hearing the crust tense and crackle.

a slice prepared, butter spread and melted upon it, i'm greeted by a miracle of salt, twinged with the slightest sweetness.