Breaking bread

Society6

In a book I read recently, a group of people sit atop Half Dome in Yosemite National Park, watching the earth break apart in an alien-initiated apocalypse whilst snacking on an impromptu picnic of cured meat, cheese and a baguette.  It's as human as we get, fulfilling the daily ritual of breaking bread as the world crumbles around them (zing).  In my mind, there may not be a better way to go.

Bread is my kryptonite and much more so now that I’m on board this whole Health Wagon Mobile (more on that later, I’m sure).  Even though I'm able to swear off dairy, meat, and sugar, bread is just one of those things that, try as I might, I cannot forgo.

This past weekend, I bought a fresh loaf of brioche-like lemon bread... and promptly ate half of it straight out of the bag when I got home from the grocery store.  And I'm proud of myself for at least I waiting until I was out of the car.  Over the winter holidays, I crafted baked bread in the form of a holiday wreath and fluffed up rolls that have taken me a decade to perfect.  All for the dull thunk of a perfectly baked boule and the airy softness of Hawaiian bread.  Or for the crackle and snap of four cheese bread, with hardened baked cheddar  crusted on the outside.

So maybe the holiday breads do explain the Health Wagon Mobile.  At the gym, I eavesdropped on a personal coach admonishing his client to give up bread, not forever but for awhile so she can stop sabotaging herself and her body.  Bread as a saboteur?  Sounds like the name of a foreign film that I'd like to star in.

I still remember the first loaf of bread that I baked.  At twelve years old, I had checked out a cookbook from the library.  The recipe was for two loaves of plain white bread, unheard of in our house at the time.  Only multi-grain be-seeded brown bread for my mom and the rest of the family.  Oh how jealous I was of everyone else who got white pilllowy squares for their sandwiches at lunch.  Back in the kitchen, having started the proofing process rather late into the evening, I remember sitting and staring at the bread in a bowl, willing it to magically inflate.  I made my parents and my sister wait up with me until it finished rising and baking in the oven, a good three hours later.  At that point, it was almost a midnight snack but we tore right into it when it popped out of the oven, steaming hot, and ate one entire loaf together in one sitting.

Even bread idioms sound delightfully delicious to me.  “Loafing around” on the weekends takes on a double meaning, both of which I plan to do this weekend.  “Bringing home the dough” in either scenario is also a good thing.  Can you tell I knead some now?**


**Sorry not sorry