Bread

I know you can write all sorts of things about bread. I will try not to do that self-congratulatory thing that food writers sometimes do when bread is their topic.

I want to talk briefly about the experience of walking to my car with a large brown paper bag, the kind with twisted handles. Nothing is in the bag but a loaf of bread -- no wrapper, no twist tie.

I bought a larger loaf of sour dough bread than I technically needed. It was what the bakery had labeled a "grande round," and it was the last such loaf they had at that point early Saturday afternoon.

I bought the grande round because it looked like something I would enjoy holding in my two hands when I took it out of the bag at home. It might look like an extravagance -- but in the way that a simple bundle of supermarket flowers can look just a bit like an extravagance.


I sliced into the loaf this morning for beakfast. I had wanted toast, and the long bread knife cut easily through the crust. The side of bread that my knife exposed was a pleasure to see.

It had been a good extravagance to buy for this long weekend.