The Cinnamon Toast Tragedy

Since not much happens on the farm in the summer, I decided to write about one of the classic tales in my family. This one has been told to many a person. It's basically a story of Dad's inability in the kitchen. Enjoy!
     This was before we were homeschooled, so it had to be at least two years ago. Mom was out of town helping with my grandmother after an accident, so we knew we had only one thing to fear when Mom was gone: the kind of food Dad would cook up. Mom and I do most of the cooking, and Dad does most of the grilling. That's just how our little equation works. When you take a parent out, well let's just say things could get messy.
     Trust me, I really tried to do most of the cooking. And I did. I did supper sometimes, and I made sure everything was in the right place in the kitchen. But everyone has that enemy that can stop them in their diligant quest, and mine was the morning. I am not a morning person. At all. I had to get up at about six-thirty for public school, so I paid no attention whatsoever to what Dad was doing. Without my knowledge, he had decided to make us one of our favorite quick-and-easy breakfasts: cinnamon toast. To those of you who have never made cinnamon toast, it has three basic ingredients: bread, sugar, and cinnamon. Pretty hard to mess up, huh? One would think so, at least. Mom, about ten years ago, put sugar in a certain container. It had no label, so there was no way of telling if you had sugar or salt. In present times, she switched the sugar with salt. Dad had no idea, in fact he thought it would be nice to put some extra sugar on our toast. He grabbed the container (still thinking it was sugar when it was truly salt) and he sprinkled tons of salt on our beloved toast. After a few minutes, Dad called us to the kitchen to devour our toast. Noah, being the boy of the family, took the first bite. His face twisted as he tasted the salt. He gave Dad a look that simply said," What the heck did you do?!" I, being the dimwit that I am, licked the toast in curiousity. The taste was awful. Joy, who was fixing lunches at the time, got a lucky break. She didn't taste the toast at all.
     Now, whenever Dad tells this story he says, "Yeah we probably have the only kids with hypertension in our county." Just so I make sure you get the moral of this story: Remember, kids, label your containers. If you don't, something horrible might happen.