Every morning, I take the butter out of the fridge first thing so it has time to soften—one of those quiet rituals that makes breakfast feel a little more civilized. But yesterday, in my sleepy haze, I grabbed a brand-new, sealed stick instead of the already-open one. By the time I realized, the old butter was still in the fridge, rock solid and literally chilling out. I couldn’t bring myself to open the new one. That felt too impulsive, too un-dull. So I did the only thing that made sense: I put the new one back and wrestled my roll into submission with cold, stubborn butter.
It wasn’t graceful. The roll tore a little, the butter refused to spread, and I muttered something unprintable under my breath. But I was too hangry to wait. I needed food, not perfection. And honestly, there was something satisfying about the effort. Like I’d earned that bite. The butter was cold, but the jam—homemade strawberry, thank you very much—was bright and sweet and made up for everything. It was a breakfast that required patience and a sense of humor. Luckily, I had just enough of both.
Later, I posted a photo, mostly as a joke. “Photo for tax,” I said, thinking it would make a few people smile. Instead, the comments section lit up with opinions. So many Rachel Lyndes, clutching their pearls over my butter choices. Some were kind, others… less so. I get it—people feel strongly about their spreads. But I wasn’t asking for a butter manifesto. I was just sharing a moment. A crumb of my day. A little slice of life, unevenly buttered and all.
I added a quick edit: I like this butter. You don’t have to. Just… be kind. It’s wild how something as simple as dairy fat can spark such strong feelings. But I guess that’s the internet. Everyone’s got a take, and some folks forget there’s a real person behind the post. I wasn’t trying to start a debate. I was just trying to eat breakfast before I turned into a gremlin. And maybe laugh a little about how hard butter can be a metaphor for life.
The truth is, I kind of love that I didn’t open the new butter. It felt like a small act of loyalty, a nod to the butter already in play. There’s something comforting about finishing what you’ve started, even if it means a little extra effort. And in a world that moves fast and throws away too easily, maybe there’s something quietly radical about sticking with the old butter. Or maybe I was just too hungry to think straight. Either way, the roll got eaten, the jam was delicious, and the moment was mine.
So here’s to the cold butter, the torn roll, and the jam that saved the day. To the rituals that ground us and the tiny decisions that somehow feel meaningful. And to the reminder that kindness matters—even in the comments section. Especially in the comments section.
