I Loaf Bread

It’s a running joke in my household that I am in seriously tumultuous relationship with bread. You know the story, once upon a time, in a land close to home, an innocent young girl meets tiger bread, and lived not so happily ever after.
One day, said girl is the best of friends with her doughy date and the next, they are barely on speaking terms. It can be days before she lets even a breadcrumb touch her lips.
The thing with bread, the true problem with my relationship with the soft pillows of edible heaven, is my innate want to be slim.
Of course I could be slim and eat bread if I ate the stuff in moderation, but moderation is for those weirdos who put two chocolate biscuits on a plate instead of eating half the packet absent-mindedly in front of the telly.
If only lettuce, cabbage and other herbaceous good-for-you fibre full bores tasted like French baguettes covered in a devilish layer of Lurpak Spreadable.  But they don’t. They taste horrid.
Put a head of lettuce next to a freshly baked focaccia with rosemary and garlic and, well, it’s just a wet lettuce isn’t it?
My flings with bread cover the globe.  I’ve dipped a Greek pitta naughtily into hummus, succumbed to a rough Yorkshire oven bottom muffin, devoured dainty brioche breads and chilled with ciabattas. I mean, I’m not fussy. I’ve been known to wedge thick slices of white Warburtons into crude sandwiches just to get my fix.
I love bread. No matter how many times it makes me bloat, puts me into a carb coma or even when it betrays me and goes soggy in a sandwich.
Bread of heaven,  you are my first love. No other wheat based good will compare.  I know if my heart gets broken or I am truly miserable, bread will be -well my bread and butter, until I’m back on my feet. 

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