Crumb cake at Luke’s and the smell of freshly made coffee. Every morning has the potential to be a perfect one. Sweet pastry, bakery items with the mix of that dark, deep, bitter liquid. Lorelai eats every crumb.
Boxed Entenmann’s crumb cake, holy with all its preservatives, promising freshness before the sell-by date. Gather around the dining room table. Company is coming. Put out that china dessert plates, teapot, sugar bowl, and the little pitcher of milk. Fresh napkins, music soft in the background. A new tablecloth, spread neatly underneath everything. There is also apple pie and cookies and ice cream. Company is coming and we are going to have a good time. We will leave only crumbs.
Taking the serrated bread knife on Sunday morning and cutting into a crusty loaf of the freshest French bread. The sawing sound and the movement of the knife unseats crumbs and sesame seeds. After cutting, I scoop them up and hold them in my palm before discarding them. This fresh bread – I will toast a piece or two and spread butter on it later. But while I wait, I will treat myself to the end piece of this noisy, crunch, soft loaf. So simple. So inflammatory. This moment could be heaven forever, smelling the toast, the char, the heady carb wafting through the home. Combined with the smell of coffee, eggs, and bacon, it smells like a diner. I feel footloose and fancy-free in the kitchen. Breakfast time can save your life. I can be enough to wake up early and not spend days bunkered down, afraid of the world and the potentialities of the trouble it may bring.
A mouse holds a large cake crumb over it’s head, forgotten about on the rug. It comes in the night, plotting the theft and its escape, back to it’s home, through the walls, to his other comrades. They will pool their findings and feast on the forgotten discarded crumbs.