It just became clear to me just how much my life is in disarray. Here in my house on a Friday evening at 11:30 I got a craving for cinnamon-sugar toast.

Now this is just wrong for several reasons. The obvious one is that I'm home alone on a Friday night. That seems to be the basic social measuring stick these days--if you have no place to be on a Friday night you're clearly a dweeb. But the real concern is the cinnamon-sugar issue. Now, sure a lot of people probably have this stuff all the time, especially for breakfast, but I haven't had it since I was nine.

What's even more strange is that I found a reused spice container of homemade cinnamon-sugar in the back of my cupboard. How many years ago did I make that, and how many moves has it survived? It's a shockingly subtle reminder of just how many things I really did learn from my parents. Ahh, yes, the secret family cinnamon-sugar recipe.

Is my life really so empty that it is easily, at least temporarily, fulfilled by the brown sandy grains swimming in the butter? I suspect it is and feel a twinge of anticipation as I watch the delightful mixture merge into the tiny warm crevices of the toast.

As I take my first bite I have to consider whether it's really such a bad thing to receive pleasure from a piece of warm toast on a Friday night.

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