Cinnamon Toast

was my favorite:
two slices of Wonder
Bread (Remember
the red, yellow and blue
hubbles on the white bag?)
smothered with C & H
("the only pure cane")
sugar ("from Hawaii"),
then lightly sprinkled
with Schilling cinnamon.
It was best when
all the sugar dissolved
in the margarine ("It's
not nice to fool Mother
Nature!" Or was I wear-
ing the Imperial crown?),
preferably in little pools.
Sometimes we'd have
avocado (I'd smush up
the green wedges with my
fork and pour tons of
Morton salt on top -
I loved the little girl
with the umbrella) or
peanut butter toast
(had to drink plenty
of milk if the Skippy
was dry), but it was
always cinnamon (or
rather the buttery
sugar) that I craved.
On weekdays, my mother
either made eggs (with
Oscar Mayer bacon, Jimmy
Dean sausages, canned
corned beef hash or
Spam) or, if she was
rushed, set out several
boxes of breakfast cereal,
usually Wheaties, Special
K, grape-nuts, Corn Flakes,
Cheerios or Shredded Wheat -
all of which you had to add
sugar to. In the cereal
aisle at the supermarket,
I begged her to buy
the sweeter, more colorful
kinds: Froot Loops, Sugar
Crisp, Lucky Charms (with
those "magically delicious"
marshmallow bits: yellow
moons, pink hearts, green
clovers, orange stars),
Rice Krispies (which
crackled, but never seemed
to snap or pop), Cap'n
Crunch (with "crunch
berries"), Crispy Critters,
Alpha-Bits (I could never
find the right sugar-
frosted oat letters to
finish my soggy words),
Count Chocula, ("I'm
Cuckoo For") Cocoa Puffs,
Cocoa (or Fruity) Pebbles,
Cocoa Krispies, Frosted Flakes
("They're Gr-r-reat!"),
Honey-Comb, Apple Jacks,
Kix and Trix. I sympathized
with the silly rabbit on TV
commercials - he always
came so close to eating
the animated orange, lemon,
raspberry and grape-flavored
puffs, only to be foiled
by those snotty kids. Once,
I entered a "Should The
Rabbit Be Allowed To Eat
Trix?" contest by mailing
a postcard with my vote
to General Mills, and felt
personally responsible
when, due to an overwhelming
audience response, they
finally let the poor creature
taste a spoonful of the
stuff. (They never actually
gave him a whole bowl.)
I was forever saving box tops
and sending away for toys
(I waited weeks for a Tony
the Tiger detective kit) or
greedily digging in new boxes
of cereal for the advertised
prize: a plastic magnifying
glass, a Batman "Crime-
fighter" button, Flintstones
finger-puppets ("Collect
All Four!"), a ring with
a secret compartment, etc.
I tried, but failed, to
collect all the Welch's
Grape Jelly jars with
pictures of cartoon characters
(Casper the friendly ghost,
Mighty Mouse, Rocky & Bullwinkle,
Road Runner - "Beep! Beep!" -
& Wile E. Coyote - I didn't
learn his name till years
later) and super-heroes
(I made my mother buy me
the one with Wonder Woman
twirling her golden lasso
even though we had half
a dozen unopened jars
at home). It was like
magic: as soon as each
jar was empty, I'd wait
for the dishwasher to
rinse away the sticky
purple remains, and out
would come a steaming,
sparkling-clean Tom &
Jerry or Boris & Natasha
glass. Day after day,
however, as I drank
Ovaltine, Tang (just
like the astronauts!)
and Nestle Quik (the
chocolate or strawberry
powder always globbed when
I added milk), every one
of them (even Superman)
began to peel and fade.
On cold mornings, we had
Quaker Oats (Remember
the white-haired man on
the round carton?) or
Cream of Wheat (I liked
it lumpy, with clumps
of brown sugar, which,
as they melted, I'd
swirl with my spoon).
Later, after my mother
returned to work, we
had instant oatmeal or
pop-tarts (Blueberry,
Strawberry, Cherry,
Dutch Apple and - sheer
Heaven! - Frosted Chocolate
Fudge), which we could
grab from the toaster
and eat on the way to
school. On Saturdays,
my mother would sleep in
then fix us Aunt Jemima
pancakes (or sometimes
waffles or French toast).
I'd spread several pats
of butter between each
flapjack and pour maple
syrup (either Log Cabin
or Mrs. Butterworth's -
Remember her? A bottle
shaped like a lady!)
until it dripped down
the sides and surrounded
the whole stack like a moat.
Sunday mornings were the
worst. We couldn't have
anything (except water
and one glass of orange
juice) until after church.
It never failed - about
halfway through Mass
my stomach would start
to growl. I tried to
disguise it by coughing,
tried sucking it in to
make it stop. I'd sit
and stand when you were
supposed to, and pretend
to say the words, but
all I could think about
were the Winchell's donuts
my mother always treated
us to on the way home:
jelly-filled, glazed twists,
buttermilk, bear claws,
powdered fritters, cinnamon
spice and (my favorites)
the ones with different-
colored icing: white with
shredded coconut, orange
with chocolate specks, pink
with chopped pecans, yellow
with red, green and blue
sprinkles. After receiving
Communion, I'd kneel in
the pew and wait an eternity
for that wafer (God, how I
wanted to chew it!) to dissolve
on the roof of my mouth.