Oh, bread, I miss you.
St. Augustine, or Oscar Wilde or Jonathan Ross, or someone else who people quote, called bread the “staff of life”.
When the Jews were starving in the desert, what did God send down from Heaven? Manna. Which is just bread by another name.
If I should ever end up on Death Row, my final meal before death would be made up of thick slices of Irish cottage loaf, with lashings and lashings of salty, yellow, Irish butter and thick slices of white pudding, washed down with a dirty big pint of milk.
If I cheat on any diet, the most likely culprit is bread (or one of bread’s many glamorous sisters – biscuits, cake, scones, pastries, pizzas).
As Celine Dion might say, “bread was my strength when I was weak. It was my voice when I couldn’t speak.” I steal the words of Bette Midler when I say that “bread was the wind beneath my wings”. And I borrow from the immortal S Club 7 when I tell you that ” there ain’t no belly like a bread-filled belly”.
Don’t tell me that I could have crackers, or Ryvita, or brown bread. Bleurgh! None of those things is bread. True bread. Real bread is white. It is not brown, or black, and it is certainly not the depressing grey of Eastern European breads. It does not contain seeds. It doesn’t have rosemary sprigs baked into the crust. It doesn’t have a pleasing nutty taste or texture. It can have as many preservatives and E-numbers as it pleases. It should be doughy. Not crumbly. Not light and airy. Bread is bread. And I miss it.
Yes, I could have some brown bread, but don’t tell me it’s as nice. People who say that are like people who say that steamed food is nicer than fried food, or that fish is just as nice as meat, or that fruit is nicer than chocolate, or wine is as nice as beer. People like this are liars. And wrong.
Of course I could eat bread in moderation. But me and moderation don’t have a great track record.
It’s about 24 hours until cheat day. Saturday shall be mainly about eating bread.