On the wholemeal, bread is the greatest thing I’ve ever seed. It never loafs around. It always rises to the occasion. I don’t mean to be too flourery with my praises – I think I must have gotten carraway. He said, ryely. At yeast I know when to stop.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? What would you be without bread? You don’t know? I do. A spread infested nightmare is what. People roaming the streets slurping Vegemite off the backs of their hands, sobbing as the honey is mashed into their clothes by the nation’s youth and disadvantaged elderly. I mean sure, lesser spread receptacles would step up to do what they can, but have you ever eaten boysenberry jam off a waterford cracker? If you have, you’re a better man than I. Eventually even the noble cracker and the exotic lavosh would crumble trying to fill the peanut butter smeared void that bread left behind.
|A world without bread: a world gone mad.
Look, there’s a camel and shit. Utter bedlam.
And don’t even get me started on bakers. These people are heroes. When all the rest of us are safe asleep dreaming of how they have to do their tax returns tomorrow (don’t forget, Patrick) the bakers are trudging down the street, fighting off vampires and shaking their yeasty fists at the moon, just daring anyone to stop them in their noble quest to bake bread. And when the sun begins to peak its flaming ginger face over the earth – like a giant curious redheaded child – fresh hot bread is waiting for road crews, retail workers and dowager empresses alike.
These mavericks in the face of conformity stick it to the man, much in the same way their sticky buns stick to deliciousness. Neenish tarts!
The bakers even spat in the face of my arch-nemesi, the maths council. When they arbitrarily decreed that the term ‘a dozen’ would mean twelve units, the bakers put down their caramel slices and said ‘nay, for us it shall mean thirteen’.
LACK OF STARS:
I once knew a girl who couldn’t eat bread. Was she gluten intolerant? Or merely allergic to it. Was it a dietary stipulation placed on her by fancy city doctors? Or self imposed, after watching a special called ‘A hundred ways to annoy your friends in a restaurant’. Sure, she might have swelled up like a pufferfish, or an affronted mayor in the 1920s – but all I really know is this.
She was the saddest girl I ever knew.