Becoming Bread

Becoming Bread

I love bread. Any kind. I’ll chomp it and watch my stomach rise until I can’t see my feet, or my shirt buttons pop. Bread. I crave it in all its variations: crunchy toasted English muffins, soft and chewy Jerusalem bagels smothered in sesame seeds, organic pumpkin-seed whole-wheat Zen toasts, and silky cinnamon rolls. Nothing can stop me from tearing apart a moist baguette and stuffing big chewy mounds into my mouth. I’m going pear-shaped just thinking about it. But this must stop! I must get in shape and regain control over my bread binging.

Today’s the day. I’ve thrown out every crust and banned all baked goods from the premises. Now comes my true test. I pace the floor. I loaf. My growling stomach scares off the neighbor’s dog. After a few weeks my waist starts to recede and my hipbones reappear. Although life without bread feels hollow, I must stay the course. I nail signs around my property—a warning to delivery people.

No

Bread Allowed

I erect a twelve-foot chain link fence around my yard with thousand watt arc lights and high-tech sensors, triggered by movement or the tiniest whiff of yeast. (You might think I’ve gone overboard here, but have you ever fallen under the spell of a Randy’s chocolate donut?) I will keep watch from my window for white-mountain rolls or any of their ilk trying to sneak in with the delivered groceries—white-mountain rolls are notoriously cunning and agile little buggers. I electrify the fence. Should any loaves get close—toast!

One night a loaf of multi-grain goodness fills my dreams, and I awaken to stirrings in the kitchen. I find a few die-hard English Water Crackers rustling inside their cardboard box—I must have missed them in the clean-out. As I flip on the kitchen lights they drop to the floor and leg it for the front door. I snag one and pop it in my mouth…hmm…maybe a little stale, but not bad. I nab another, crunch…delicious! They race down the hall and slide under the door and into the front yard. I fling open the door and dash outside in my pajamas, the ones with the small brioche print I bought at the École Internationale de Boulangerie gift shop. The neighborhood streetlights dim as my security sensors pick up my movement, followed by a low hum that builds until my industrial strength spotlights snap on with a ground-shaking KA-CHUNK. The light caramelizes my eyebrows and momentarily blinds me. The crackers leap into the plumbago and I dive in after them, my willpower eroding.

The next morning I awaken groggy and dry-mouthed in my bed, my PJs and hair covered in dirt, crushed blue flowers, and cracker crumbs. I’ve fallen off the wagon.

I phone Yummy.

“I’ll have two loaves of challah bread, six pretzel rolls, two dozen white mountain rolls, and a case of English muffins.” They arrive in less than an hour. I rip open the moist challah before the deliveryman has left the porch. I inhale its yeasty bouquet. I brew a fresh pot of coffee, warm the butter, pull apart fistfuls of the dewy loaf and have at it. Bliss. When I finish the loaf I feel dizzy and I lie down on the sofa, the second challah tucked under my head for a pillow. I rest my stocking feet upon soft mounds of muffins and rolls. I sleep the sleep of the righteous. I rise.