Bun – SOC

Buns are children’s parties – back before fairy cakes and cup-cakes, there were buns – soft sponge, vanilla scented, iced with dribbled glace icing, topped with a lurid cherry. Glace cherries, too, as if the whole thing were some frozen creation, sugared with frost, preserved in the freezer of memory. We use those icing metaphors – so obvious, when you see snow. Frosting, icing, the white sugar coating.

Technicolour, too, the artificial well e-ed icing of childhood, when we were expected to scream around the garden, wild as wilderness, free of bills and mortgages and working out what to make for dinner. Buns are not dinner. Buns are tea, with tongue puckering orange squash and thin, pale sandwiches. Buns are shiny.

Bread buns, currant buns, hot cross buns – it is Easter, after all – they are sitting downstairs, plump and glossy and stuffed with fruit and spices. I’ll split them toast them butter them try to make them last but they are best eaten warm with the butter a liquid golden lubricant. My fingers will be slightly sticky.

Linda prompts us with the word “bun” for the Saturday steam of consciousness. Five minutes, unfiltered, unedited, still warm from the oven. 

1 thought on “Bun – SOC

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s