Toast can be traumatic.
Recall getting called out at some fancy dinner party for buttering the whole slice to eat with the meat paste (i know it was pate, but Iām being deliberately coarse), which I slathered on right from the pot (( I know itās a ramekin, but see previous notes). The ārightā way, I was told at a whisper by my chinless neighbour, is to butter a corner, then dab on a dot of meat paste, then tuck it into your little chops, and repeat - with the butter and meat paste decanted into little piles on your plate, to be plucked at with the knife.
F**k that.
My own bread toasts well - itās sourdough with a bit of rye. Needs a high heat, done as quickly as poss. Mine ought to be the same colour as my boots - a deep, orangey brown. No carbon, except if itās going a bit stale and is sliced too thinly, in which case it will easily go black and be fed to the stove.
No butter till the toast is cooled somewhat, standing upright on one crust edge on the bread board while the coffee brews, leaning in against its fellow (one must eat all toast slices in pairs - never odd numbers). All steam must leave the surface freely, to avoid The Sog. Butter, at room temperature, once professionally applied with one of a potful of wooden butter spreaders, must still resemble butter once the finishing coat is applied, be it cheese, jam, marmalade or whatever.
No slicing here. Tearing yes. But mostly stuffing of torn or whole slices, depending on size, into the face. And always standing. Yet to manage to hold off long enough to sit to eat any toast, ever.