There’s no denying that my generation is fully responsible for the proliferation of one of the greatest brunch items known to mankind: avocado toast. Take it from me, a childless Millennial in my mid-thirties: I know a thing or two about contemporary brunch favorites.
In fact, if you stop and think about it, this groundbreaking work of culinary artistry miraculously succeeds at encapsulating an entire balanced breakfast in just one exceptionally well-layered bite, something no other brunch dish can honestly claim. And if you ask the older generations why it is that us young folks can’t afford to invest in our retirement, buy a starter home, have children of our own, or even manage to pay rent for a modest one bedroom, they’ll surely cite our indulgence in this extraordinary dish as the primary cause, along with our supposed lust for venti Frappuccinos and steadfast refusal to work minimum-wage jobs with zero benefits or sick leave in a time when health insurance and Social Security face the chopping block.
But putting all that aside for a moment, I think it’s finally time for Boomers to be honest with themselves and admit that if they could trade all their stocks, pensions, investment properties, and a plethora of other presently out-of-reach financial assets to go back in time and relish the wonders of avocado toast in their youth, they would make that swap in a heartbeat. Because deep down, they wish they had been the masterminds behind the hipster toast us youngbloods can’t stop raving about.
See, it starts with two pieces of perfectly golden sourdough or whole grain toast, lightly buttered and generously smeared with that creamy green nutrient-rich fruit we all love so obsessively, which serves as a comforting edible base for two delightfully gooey six-minute eggs to rest upon as their silky yolks flow gently onto your plate, only to be topped with an assortment of razor-thin radish slices and micro greens drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, finished with a sprinkling of Himalayan sea salt and a splash of freshly squeezed citrus. For those looking to put a little pep in their morning step, two cracks of peppercorn.
And just like that, it’s game over. You’re addicted. There’s no turning back.
Suddenly, you can’t stop thinking about avocado toast. Ordering avocado toast. Making avocado toast. It’s all you dream about at night. It’s the first thing you see when you open your eyes the next morning. The pile of avocados in different stages of ripeness continues to grow in the wooden bowl on your counter.
When you arrive at one of your three jobs, your coworker spots a green smudge on your wrinkled shirt, only it’s dry. It won’t wipe off. You fear the worst; it’s from the day before. You hope it’s their first time noticing and discretely come to terms with the fact that you might have a problem. You realize the only thing that could possibly come between you and your newly discovered happy place is your bank account, which you’re about one student loan payment away from emptying out completely.
The panic sets in. Your mind begins to race, running through all your monthly expenses in a desperate attempt to eliminate any and all costs that aren’t absolutely necessary. The first that comes to mind is your streaming service. Where once upon a time your TV programming was bundled into one tight package, today your virtual entertainment consists of a multitude of platforms for you to piece together at will. Luckily, there’s always one that proves to be extraneous. You cancel it immediately. There’s $15 saved. Next is your news aggregate subscription, which is your only source of reliable reporting since your budget doesn’t allow for cable. But it’s also the main cause of your high anxiety, to which the only cure is – you guessed it – more avocado toast. Another $15 saved.
You consider lowering your home internet speed by a couple hundred megabits per second, which could save at least $21, but you need the approval of your roommates. There are five of them but only two are home. The internet discussion will have to wait. You must go on without them. Next is the fridge. Instead of buying cage-free organic brown eggs, you contemplate outdoor-access, pasture-raised white eggs, which happen to be nearly $3 dollars per dozen cheaper, even with the national egg shortage still looming. At five dozen eggs a month, that’s another $15 dollars saved. You decide it’s time to switch from ready-made orange juice to concentrate. $12 off. You buy boxed rice milk off the shelf instead of refrigerated almond milk. $9 off. You vow to have meatless Mondays and taco-less Tuesdays. Even frozen meal Fridays. Easily another $30 in savings.
You take a deep breath, as your fear of not being able to afford your favorite meal slowly begins to fade. But just to be sure, you continue your budget analysis, convinced that more needs to be done. Then you remember you have a bike, which if you ride to work just two days a week, will save you money on gas and parking. Over an entire month, that’s another $33 off. Instead of splurging on Charmin Ultra Soft toilet paper, you go with the generic brand and pledge to only use three squares per wipe. You commit to taking shorter showers, running the heat on alternating days, only using the dishwasher when it is completely full, and limiting your loads of laundry to just three per week. You put off buying new socks and white undershirts despite the growing number of holes. You promise not to visit IKEA until the week before Christmas, even though your coffee table is currently a small stack of shoe boxes. You implement a moratorium on attending your friends’ destination weddings, three of which you’ve already received invitations for.
Now, surely, you’ve saved enough to avoid quitting smavo cold turkey.
But then you get a letter in the mail. It’s from your landlord, and it’s about your rent. It’s going up by 10%, which was already 20% more than you could afford before the increase. Demoralized, you lean back against the wall and slowly slide down until your bottom hits the floor. You wonder how it is that you got here, how it could have come to this. A proper grownup unable to pay for your special little meal that has brought you so much joy over the years. A tear streams down your face as the reality of your final avocado toast date sinks in. Despite your monumental efforts to save, to work multiple jobs while living with more roomies than you did in the dorms, you’re left with only one option: Moving back into your parents’ house.
After all, they’re the ones who made all the right choices. They’re the ones who planned for the worst. Surely, they will understand where you’re coming from.
