Offer a Chilean a modern slot toaster and watch their face. A short digression on how a piece of history survived the modern world at the end of the earth.
And we have it in Argentina! Probably not a surprise, as it’s your neighboring country! I’ve seen this gem in my grandparents’ & mother’s homes in Buenos Aires; it’s so evocative for me too.
I love reading your writing. I’m now in NYC but I can revisit your stunning part of the world through your writing. 🇨🇱🇦🇷
Oh, I love that this took us all the way to Argentina, from NYC. This little gadget has been crossing into our neighboring countries for some time now — quietly making its home in kitchens like your grandparents'. Thank you for reading me!
Reporting from Buenos Aires that we too employ the same archaic device, though without the holes which adds a few seconds to the small window of error available.
I hate the smell of burnt bread so I never it unattended. My husband, on the other hand... has been known to char a tostado or two.
Buenos Aires reporting in — I love it! Interesting that yours has no holes. The charred tostado now and then? My husband knows that fate well too. Some of us watch the bread like hawks; others trust it a little too much. 😄 Solidarity across the cordillera.
I L..O.V.E. this! It's funny, because I don't usually like modern poetry, because it doesn't speak to me, but this poem is speaking my language. There is something so basic about bread, which in Arabic is ayeesh, or life. It is a living thing, a yeast converting flour through heat into bread. And the smell of bread! Who can resist it? I somehow think I may be at heart more Chilean than Mexican because I love bread so much, and here the tortilla is king, but the king never rises, only sleeps.
"The king never rises, only sleeps" — Carl, that's a line I wish I'd written. 😄 And ayeesh, bread as life — that gives me chills. Maybe that's why bread undoes us the way it does: we're not just smelling flour and heat, we're smelling something alive, something that grew. That you don't usually love modern poetry and this one reached you means more than I can say. Welcome to the land of bread — we even sell it on the roadside, by the highway. 🍞
Merci to you and your grille-pain! 🔥 "The everyday art of feeding the world" — beautiful! Two old racks of fire, one in Gascony and one in the south of Chile, doing the same quiet, sacred work.
And we have it in Argentina! Probably not a surprise, as it’s your neighboring country! I’ve seen this gem in my grandparents’ & mother’s homes in Buenos Aires; it’s so evocative for me too.
I love reading your writing. I’m now in NYC but I can revisit your stunning part of the world through your writing. 🇨🇱🇦🇷
Oh, I love that this took us all the way to Argentina, from NYC. This little gadget has been crossing into our neighboring countries for some time now — quietly making its home in kitchens like your grandparents'. Thank you for reading me!
Love this, learned something new too!
That's amazing! thank you!
Reporting from Buenos Aires that we too employ the same archaic device, though without the holes which adds a few seconds to the small window of error available.
I hate the smell of burnt bread so I never it unattended. My husband, on the other hand... has been known to char a tostado or two.
Buenos Aires reporting in — I love it! Interesting that yours has no holes. The charred tostado now and then? My husband knows that fate well too. Some of us watch the bread like hawks; others trust it a little too much. 😄 Solidarity across the cordillera.
Take the line, it's yours! I would be honored.
I L..O.V.E. this! It's funny, because I don't usually like modern poetry, because it doesn't speak to me, but this poem is speaking my language. There is something so basic about bread, which in Arabic is ayeesh, or life. It is a living thing, a yeast converting flour through heat into bread. And the smell of bread! Who can resist it? I somehow think I may be at heart more Chilean than Mexican because I love bread so much, and here the tortilla is king, but the king never rises, only sleeps.
"The king never rises, only sleeps" — Carl, that's a line I wish I'd written. 😄 And ayeesh, bread as life — that gives me chills. Maybe that's why bread undoes us the way it does: we're not just smelling flour and heat, we're smelling something alive, something that grew. That you don't usually love modern poetry and this one reached you means more than I can say. Welcome to the land of bread — we even sell it on the roadside, by the highway. 🍞
A perfect Ode to the Kitchen Commonplace- our tools, our expression of everyday art of feeding the world. Merci from my grille-pain and me!
Merci to you and your grille-pain! 🔥 "The everyday art of feeding the world" — beautiful! Two old racks of fire, one in Gascony and one in the south of Chile, doing the same quiet, sacred work.