ode to butter

It’s golden, creamy when warm, hard when soft. It melts in my mouth, or on a slab of freshly-baked sourdough bread. Transporting itself into an unforgettable liquid gold. The Illinois state fair’s dairy barn fashions a statue of Abraham Lincoln out of it. My mouth waters for old Abe. It makes the cake or cookies or biscuits taste deeper, richer, flakier. Sometimes it gets fancy, with sea salt from the Celtic sea sprinkled on top, those little pop rocks making a flavor explosion in my mouth. Country crock offers a cinnamon-spiked option that I can lick straight from a spoon. And on a good day, a day where there’s space and time and sunshine, I take rosemary from the garden to get that savory, umami floral feeling, finely chop and mix it in. and it goes where I go. On potatoes or blanched vegetables, inside the chicken, even dressing up a basic saltine. Dreamy and devourable. Everything’s better with butter.

Ode to Butter | The Manual
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