#bread life

A passage from my mom’s 1991 travel journal:

Old Hungarian saying — “Hungarians will even eat bread with bread.”

We had a lot of good bread — I wish we could have had more.

He takes his time at it. His hands covered in flour. The soft resistance of the dough as he kneads. The pleasing, accomplished roundness of a perfectly formed ball, resting on the tray. The hearty aroma filling the kitchen as the bread bakes.

Once the loaf is cool, he cuts a thick slice. Smears it with rich Irish butter, scoops out a large dollop of blueberry jam from a nearby farm. Makes himself a cup of tea. And then Crowley sits at the counter in the kitchen, and slowly eats that slice, bite after bite. Considers the crack of the crust, the airiness of the crumb. Smells summer in the berries, and home in the bread. He made this thing of sustenance, and it is good.

Crowley thinks about how tomorrow he’ll cut slices off the loaf, and spread thick layers of creamy peanut butter and jam. Wraps the sandwiches and pack them away in the green cooler, for Dean to find on a hunt. He’ll keep the crusty ends of the loaf, scrub them with garlic and sprinkle with cheese. Toast and serve in accompaniment of a white bean and chorizo soup tomorrow night.