Getting Crusty

Never in my entire life, from being adopted and brought here to NC through now, have I not owned at least one loaf of bread. That bland, unfilling staple. Yet every week or so I walk right past the $1.29 brown bundles and search through the $3.29s for the longest lasting. And why? So to extend the amount of time  that I have to give my dog the squishy pieces?

The question of nature versus nurture ever knocks, especially when you can’t understand the latter for constantly obsessing over the former that is a guaranteed unknown.

Then, there is the question of “other people do this too, right?” I mean, for other folks it might be eggs or coffee or creamer for coffee. I just happen to gravitate towards that one universal symbol that transcends boundaries of time, except for those who are gluten free or don’t fixate on inherited habits and find my current admission utterly ridiculous. 

From Les Mis to The Hunger Games to Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography and to other stories that I don’t really like that much anymore, bread represents our control over our own particular hunger. It is ours to consume and to freeze for later and to burn and to warm our bellies. 

(Oh, and Aladdin. Almost forgot that one. I like the live action better.)

Do I carry this trait the same way you have to put half a paper towel in a pitcher before it goes under the sink, or like how breakfast sausage is the best seasoning for scrambled eggs? Or is it the fear of not having, ever starving off the descending line of savings, that drives me to secure my pantry each week? Middle America, is this your gift to me?

No, instead, I know this familiar feeling. It is your grandmother’s voice in your head saying, “That’s a nice box. You might need a good cardboard box soon.”