Dad's surprise toast crunchy

The Saturday Guardian is - despite its fair share of depressingly misandrist commentators - one of the greatest things about British life. It is quite phenomenally good.

One of my (admittedly less than macho) guilty pleasures is buried away in the weirdly named 'Family' section. Written by readers, it describes the role that a particular food plays in their family's life. They are usually so well written, speaking of long-lost intimacies, rich with the pathos of loss and joy. Last week was no exception:

Dad's surprise toast crunchy.

We loved it when Dad made these for us, both for the high ceremony that accompanied any of his adventures in the kitchen as well as the element of surprise that always came with this treat. He worked with a certain gravitas, dashing from cupboard to fridge to grill, as though preparing a gourmet meal for the most discerning of restaurant customers, rather than us hungry, cranky scavengers. Then they would be placed, ceremoniously, on a plate awaiting the taster's approval.

Tea towel on shoulder, he would announce, "Now, Auntie Deirdre (as I, aged six, was for some reason known), tell me what you think of that." In hindsight, the recipe appears somewhat less mysterious: Butter slices of bread. Grate, slice or chop whatever is to hand - apples, carrots, cheese, onions, mushrooms - pile on to the bread and grill slowly until the cheese melts and everything is more or less hot. Sometimes we would find all sorts of oddities lurking beneath the cheese - slices of banana, nuts, glace cherries and even Weetabix. Now, all the grandchildren gather in my parents' kitchen in Ireland and make these together, setting up a production line of butterers, choppers, graters and, for the older ones, grillers, and they are made for grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins - whoever is around. We all still love them.