And, of course, there was Tommy’s Terrible Toast.
It started as a joke. During our very first community dinner, I volunteered to make garlic bread to accompany Denise’s vegetable soup. Naturally, I got distracted talking to a parishioner about church finances, and three entire trays of French bread emerged from the oven looking like charcoal briquettes.
I was ready to toss them in the dumpster when Wade intercepted me.
“Wait,” Wade said, inspecting a blackened crust with an analytical squint. “Is this edible?”
“It’s radioactive,” I admitted ruefully.
“No,” Wade said with a sudden, rare grin that reminded me entirely of Margaret. “It’s brilliant marketing.”
Within twenty-four hours, Wade had printed a small, laminated sign and placed it proudly next to the cash register:
TOMMY’S TERRIBLE TOAST: $1.00 (Warning: Consuming this item may violate local fire safety codes, but all proceeds go to the community fund. Buy it to support a good cause and mock the pastor’s culinary incompetence.)
To my absolute astonishment, it became our best-selling item. People ordered it out of sheer curiosity, tourists took selfies with it, and teenagers bought it as a dare. Every time someone ordered a slice, Denise would yell across the kitchen, “Pastor! Another fire hazard in booth four!” and the entire room would erupt into laughter.
For a man who had spent forty-five years worrying about whether his sermons were too long, whether his theology was orthodox enough, and whether he was doing enough to save the world, standing behind a counter covered in flour crumbs while people laughed at my burnt bread was strangely liberating.
