Ah, Special Toast. You are not for every day. Some might argue you are not for any day, but I don’t want to hear from those curmudgeons, who are also probably lunch time tooth brushers.
When I was a kid, Dad would occasionally have responsibility for breakfast coverage, and when the stars aligned, and time and moods were perfectly in synch, we would make Special Toast. This pretty much blew our minds, because we were allowed to put ANYTHING WE WANTED THAT WE COULD FIND IN THE KITCHEN on slices of bread, broil them, and eat them. Lumps of brown sugar? Sure! Cheerios? Go ahead! It was delicious, delicious anarchy.
Every once in a while in these parts, when we experience a similar convergence of an open weekend morning, good moods and parental serenity, we pull out the stops and do the same.