Of Bread

As referenced previously, I have recently undertaken the task of being my family's sole bread provider.  And when I say that, I mean it literally - as in I'm the only one making bread for our family, not some factory somewhere (which has given a whole new appreciation for the invention of sliced bread, though I'm still good with slicing our own when I know what's been put in it).

My first accomplishment in regular bread making was a honey-wheat loaf with which my husband fell in love instantly - touting the wonders of this fresh bread straight from the warmth of our own oven.  He could eat it every day, he said, and he especially loved the idea of making sandwiches with his new wheat friend.  Yes, he was definitely infatuated with this bread.

But then . . .

After partaking of the deliciousness of some home-made Italian bread from church friends, I discovered my own recipe.  I had never before considered the possibility of creating Italian bread in my very own kitchen.  And it turns out the affection my man had for that wheat bread was nothing but pure puppy love.  His feelings for the Italian variety?  These run deep.

Suddenly old wheat is nothing to him, tossed aside for a younger, sleeker model.  When I recently mentioned I'd be making more bread, he eagerly asked which kind.  I noted we needed more for sandwiches, so I'd be making the wheat.  To which he replied, "Well, I like sandwiches on the other, too."

Yep, wheat might as well be chopped liver.

In noting my disdain at his so easily tossing aside what had previously been like heaven-on-earth for him, his response was, "You're lucky I haven't met any Italian girls."

And when, during our date this evening, he partook in the soft, fluffy variety of bread at a local Italian restaurant, he mentioned it was a good thing I didn't have a recipe for that or he might be just as fickle toward his newer passion.

What I'm really thinking is I'm lucky I'm not a loaf bread.


1,000 Gifts:
384. The thrill of the hunt.

385. Date night with my man.

386. Bed-time stories with my boys.

387. Friendship re-kindled.
388. A stranger who chooses to be gracious and forgiving rather than bitter and hostile.
389. Overwhelming options (especially when it comes to dessert).


My Life: My Breakfast
Special K (Fruit & Yogurt variety) and scrambled eggs - the breakfast of champions (or stay-at-home moms).