Beans on Toast

Now, I don't mean to keep harping on about London this, London that. I really don't. But last night something happened. This thing, it wasn't so abnormal. It has happened in many places other than London, and to many people other than me. It was the simple, exasperating problem we all face periodically, when we've been negligent with the Whole Foods runs, the FreshDirect orders, the bodega foraging, or what have you. I got home after a long day at work, my tummy rumbling, and opened the fridge. What was inside? Nothing! Well, sure, there was some limp lettuce in a flimsy bag, half an onion, half a tomato, some hot sauce, a half-empty bottle of Tanqueray and a single lime, but nothing which could fool even the fooliest fool into thinking it could suffice as a meal. I shuffled through my whopping stack of two delivery menus, but nothing looked appetizing. I felt dejected. Only a few days earlier, my friend Keni came over and made fun of the bread I had sitting on the counter; I had been excited to find said loaf at my neighborhood Wild Oats, as it was a cute half-sized loaf, dubbed "The Bachelor Loaf" in a bright, pointy yellow starburst on the label.

"Haha!" Keni taunted me. "Molly's a bachelor. She doesn't own a whole loaf of bread!"

"But...but...I can't finish a whole loaf of bread by myself before it goes moldy," I retorted, secretly hurt.

"Hahaha! Bachelor!" Keni taunted me some more. I pouted at the time, but last night, in the state I was in, it seemed he was right. Who has only condiments and booze stored in the fridge? Bachelors, that's who. I was nothing but a bachelor. I sat down on my bachelor chair in my bachelor pad and moped. I might as well be growing stubble and wearing a wifebeater. Wait, I was wearing a wifebeater. What had my life come to?

But, as mopey as I was, I still felt hungry, and something had to be done. I opened the cupboard doors, and, lo and behold, a solution was right there, staring me in the face. Beans! Glorious, glorious beans.

Now, let me explain. People here in the USA don't seem to appreciate the versatility of the common baked bean. But in London, oh man. Baked beans are da proverbial bomb. They put them on chips [french fries]. They put them on jacket [baked] potatoes. They put them on toast. Wait! What was that? Toast you say? Well, I just so happen to have this handy half-sized Bachelor loaf right here. Looks like my dinner problems are solved! Take THAT, Keni!

So, to make a short story shorter, I transferred those bad boys from their can to a pot, put the toast in my cute little red retro-style (and definitely NON-bacheloresque) toaster oven, and five minutes later I had myself a marvelous meal. Sure, my American friends will probably stare at me, mouths agape, and shout "that's not a meal! You fool!" But I know that my comrades across the pond will nod knowingly in their tweed coats and bowler hats (dampened slightly by the light rain, of course), give me a wink, and say "nicely done, mate! What what!" Then they'll flip me a shilling, lean on the handle of their umbrella, and jump up and click their heels. Because that's what British people do.

So now, for all you dumb Yanks, here's a visual explanation of my last night's dinner:



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I just threw that Jesus toast in there so you'd get a better idea of the true glory of the finished product. I mean, what could be better? The whole meal costs approximately $1, takes five minutes to make, and is delicious (although probably not too nutritious). Three cheers for beans on toast!