Did you ever do that thing as a child where you hold a buttercup to your chin to see whether you like butter? If your chin goes yellow (which it invariably does), you do.
Now, I’m never going to single-handedly save the dairy industry: I don’t drink milk or take it in my tea. I’m more partial to cream and even that I don’t really have much anymore. I occasionally (rarely) eat yogurt or cheese-on-toast. Ice-cream, yes, it’s necessary in this heat.
What I like, though, is butter melting on my toast. Jam is good for cream teas, but not on my toast.
There is nothing better than golden pools of melting butter on toast; on crumpets toasted on an open fire; on Sunday breakfast drop-scones that your dad made because your mum hasn’t made pain au chocolat. It’s just so gorgeously decadent, so wonderfully luxurious, to be eating something dripping with melting butter.
Now, usually, I buy basics butter, on the premise that, you know, butter is butter. Is there really any difference between basic brands and more expensive butters? There’s no point spending more than I need to, thought I, reaching for the cheapest. Well, actually, in a word, Yes. My goodness, yes.
You see, the other day, ASDA forced (yes, I will use that word) me to deviate. It had none of the Value Butter. I had to look towards the more expensive ones. Trying to stick to my budget, though, I went for the next cheapest. Only about 50p more expensive, so not break-the-bank expensive. It was a half-pound block of green-foil-wrapped Cornish butter, from Trewithen’s dairy.
It is, by far and away, the most delicious butter I have ever tasted. Mark and I ate the entire block, and the loaf of bread I’d just bought, in about two days. Honestly, this butter is all I need on my toast. I can’t begin to do justice to the taste of Trewithen’s butter. I have been raving about this butter to all who’ll listen. I eschew making “proper” meals to have more toast, just to eat the butter.
And now that I hear that fats are supposed to be good for me, so much the better. I suspect that, ideally, the powers-that-be would prefer me not to be slathering it over toast, or crumpets, or drop-scones, or whatever, but screw that. Life’s too short, and buttery toast too delicious.