Last Thursday, the day starts off ordinary. A quotidian routine. Morning toast and tea. With whole milk. No sugar anymore; gave it up one Lent; never looked back, except for the occasional indulgence. It's so addictive to slide back into, but I don't miss that sweetness, not really. Shockingly sweet if sugar added. The bread is local, artisanal. Heidelberg Baking Company. Herkimer, New York. This morning, white. Excellent for toasting. But first the sliced pieces need delicate separating. Had we frozen this loaf? So, sliced is not quite sliced until my hands surgically finish the existential act. It is a careful operation. Attentive. Or else the pieces will crumble into untoastable morsels. But the division is complete and the toaster accepts this sacrifice. Breakfast is a quiet feast.
Lunch is a pleasant indulgence with a dear friend.
Supper at India House with wife, younger daughter, son, his wife.
Gifts, mostly books.
Such was my 60th birthday.
Found in the breaking of the bread.