In England, France, Morocco, Germany, and Italy, toast is made via toaster or oven. The soft bread is popped in your cooking device, you wait four minutes, and done! You end up with perfectly brown, crispy, wimpy and wimply-made toast. Then those same Germans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Moroccans, and Italians make it worse by putting sleepily melting butter on it. It's yellow! It's slowly making its way to the edge of the bread! It's so boring! Oh sure, a few of those countries may try to make it better with those jams or jellies. But putting pureed fruit on a warm piece of purposely burnt bread only brings them down further.
But, in the land of the free, furious, and fatty, otherwise known as America, bread is not toasted, but beaten into a crunchy state with its own hands. It ends up not crispy but near flaming with flavor and, well, flames. To prove the Americans advances in toast technology, we will put two different cultures side by side. Imagine, an American man and an English man, both making toast on a common Saturday morning.
The Englishman, a man with bushy eyebrows that resemble caterpillars and sleep ruffled blonde hair, begins his day with getting out of bed with a yawn. He shuffles out of bed then starts to make the bed. Flip the globe and the American's alarm clock goes off. His muscular fist hits it. The phrase "Five more minutes" is heard about seven times within fifteen minutes. Since the American's struggle with his clock goes on for twenty more minutes, let's skip back to the Englishman. He's done brushing his teeth and washing his face. Even the washcloths around the world are boring; the Englishman uses a brown cloth. He checks his hair in the mirror. Satisfied, he trots to the kitchen to begin his day.
The American finally gets up with a moan. He's tired after a long evening of late night television crime shows. He has work today but he decides he'll call in sick. Maybe he'll have a tongue illness today; would a green tongue with neon highlights work? Crawling into the bathroom, he scrapes a blue toothbrush's bristles across his teeth. In America, the face washing towels are exciting. Every single one is printed with a brisk picture of the American flag. Alright, almost every one. There are few green ones, a purple one, two French flag ones, and on certain Tuesdays there may be a pink washcloth.
Anyways, as the American drags himself to the wooden stairs, the Englishman has already put milk in a kettle on the stove. As it warms for tea, the man gets out the tea bags and raspberry jam. First off, who puts milk in tea? Tea is supposed to be water and a tea bag or some leaves! Milk goes into coffee. The rest of the world is so confused. He puts the wheat bread in the toaster and sets it to four minutes. By this time, while the Englishman reads his newspaper, the American is finally at the top of the stairs. He looks down at the stairs below. It took so long to get here and he's so tired! The bed is warm, soft, and does not involve moving down five stairs. He's tempted to turn around but his pink bunny slippers trip on the wood and soon he's on the floor downstairs. See; even getting downstairs in America is thrilling. Everyone else wastes energy by walking.
After reading about the British stock market, the Brit gets out of his seat at the sound of the whining milk kettle. He pours a cup of the steaming liquid into a thick green mug. Three soft tea leaves from a box with an intricate smiling queen were dropped in and swirled around with a spoon. Three leaves? Three! In America, people use tea bags or at least seven tea leaves! Shame on you, world. Be more American! Why do you think it's Latin America, South America, North America, and the Mall of America? But we still have to get to the toast. In Britain, it has two more minutes in the hot toaster before it is ready to eat. The American has placed his white bread in the fire place, a spear through the middle. He turns it slowly as it starts to turn brown. Then he dips the breaded spear into the actual blue fire. Now that's how Americans make toast. But he needs his drink as well. Scampering to the fridge, he pulls out a large carton of milk and takes a manly swig. Of milk. That's right: two percent, all white milk. He's a man.
Bing! The British toast has strung to life with a sunny tan. A butter knife plunges into purplish goo and leisurely paddles across the crunchy surface. The English man bites into his first slice and every once in a while sips his tea. This whole scene takes around fifteen minutes before the English gentleman goes back upstairs to dress, grabs his car keys, and goes to work. Boring. Meanwhile, the American, drenching his browned stakes of bread in melted doom, peeks at the time. It's nearing nine o'clock! He forgot to call in sick. He retrieves his toast, scarfs it down, and rushes out the door in his rubber ducky pajamas. Maybe his boss will think he's insane and send him home.
This was just for fun! I hope you enjoyed it too and I hope no one was offended. This idea came from chatting with a friend who visited England. She said "They make their food funny," and thus, this story was born. I made to make 'Murica amazing, even though it can't even keep the lights on in the Super Bowl.