A Love Affair with Bread
My love affair with bread began at a young age. It began sneaky, not seductively, but was it ever a grand and true love. Our house was always full of bread. Seeded loaves of semonlina, sliced bishop, loaves of Italian bread stowed away in the freezer, you know, just in case. There were bagels every Sunday after church, big, fat, doughy and round. The perfect specimen for butter and dipping; or both. My brother Louis and I would enter the house, rip the warm, semi-wet paper bag of bagels open and walk to the refrigerator to take out the Breakstone’s whipped butter. We’d each break our bagels open, by hand, uncivilized midget Italian heathen children, and stick the knife with a wad of butter right in the center. CHOMP. We would devour our buttered bagels and then take another, split it in half, and dunk it in the Sunday gravy when mom left the kitchen. We couldn’t get enough.
My memories of bread are filling and resulted in an expanded waistline but, well, it wasn’t the breads fault. When you turn into an emotional eater and then everyone tells you “TINA DON’T EAT THE BREAD!” Guess what? You sneak the bread. You eat it in large quantities. You make the bread happen. I made the bread happen. And, the good news is that after a destructive relationship with the stuff, then a restricted relationship with it, I can finally eat it in fucking peace. Buttered and while alone. It only took 20 years of fixing. But, we’re here.
And, while alone, during the pandemic, as everyone was purchasing sourdough starter kits, I was researching how to make bread that did not have a 24 hour plus preparation time. I am a self-proclaimed “lazy baker,” but a cook who will spend hours chopping, prepping and tasting - go figure. I’m proud of my lazy baking, and I’m pretty good at it. I am also willing to bet that the majority of people who made sourdough during the pandemic were solely doing it for Instagram or to be part of a conversation that I, on the other hand, could give a shit about being a part of. I am also willing to guarantee that none of those hipsters are currently making sourdough bread now that they can go out and buy it.
I wanted my bread, and I wanted it fast. I wanted it hot and fresh with the least amount of effort. Although, with men, hot fast and fresh always got me into trouble - this bread would be safe. I was safe now. I was safe and I was safe with bread. I detested (and still do) store-bought bread after years of Weight Watchers 1 point slices and a childhood of turkey and mustard sandwiches on Branola. Growing up, mom worked in a bakery, hence the supply in the house, but she still bought the sliced stuff because the 1980’s were built on processed and packaged products. Besides, I forgive her, I think those sandwiches probably held up better for lunch. For breakfast, she always came through with buttered bread, a poached egg and milk tea - served alongside morning and after school hugs that smelled like butter, sugar and flour.
After a few homemade bread recipe trials (and failures) that didn’t require a bread maker or days of preparation and waiting, I finally landed on a recipe for Dutch Oven Bread that made some big promises; including a “perfectly crusty crust and a moist inside.” I imagined this could be the recipe, the winner, because I also related to the author's love for cooking and need for ease because baking homemade bread is known to be a “hassle.” Much like my men, now, I like my bread and my food uncomplicated.
I got into my kitchen with all purpose flour, instant yeast and another promise from the author; that I “wouldn’t have to knead this bread or wait more than 2 hours for it to rise and put in the oven.” The Dutch Oven method of heating the pot prior to baking, then adding the dough, covering it and putting it in the oven for a 45 minute steam is what would create a crust and keep the inside of the bread moist.
The author of this recipe did not write a lie. Her promises were all true.
This bread became a monthly habit. I ate it alone and plain, but never in secret. I ate it in the bathtub, warm with butter because there is nothing more seductive than feeding yourself buttered bread while naked and covered in bubbles. A belly swollen with pleasure. We had a complete love affair for an entire year. I was open and honest about it, satisfied and sated by bread during a time of dating trials and awkwardness. I told my friends all about it and even shared a few loaves. Once again, food came through for me - my lover, my hero and my friend. Have you ever had a love affair with bread? Have you ever had a love affair with food? I followed this very recipe to a tee and had overcome any fear I ever had of flour and, some having to do with nudity, but not all of my fears having to do with nudity. I confronted a fear of being alone with a loaf of bread and not eating it all in one sitting. Turns out I did have self-control. Turns out I did know how to love without attachments.
And, one day with Jim, I shared my Dutch Oven Bread love affair. Was it right? Was it wrong? I don’t know. I think it was right. If we don’t share what we love, even if it does get us hurt, what are we here for? Besides, I willingly did it. He asked and I came through. I can’t blame him for this either, only myself. Much like I had to take responsibility for my prior relationship with bread, I had to take responsibility for my actions with men.
After a year of eating bread alone, Jim’s offer for me to come over again and cook was tempting. Before we ever cooked together, I thought about making this bread with him. I always did that when I met someone, I imagined whether or not I could picture myself cooking for or with them. I don’t think that’s strange, do you? If I can’t picture myself cooking with someone, I certainly can’t picture myself sleeping with them. Too bad the latter often preceded the former in my dating book. But, not this time, and not again. So, we did it, we made the bread. Following the Timpano, we had another platonic sleepover where we baked and delighted in the art of Saturday afternoon sandwiches. I showed up to his home, once again, with a new cake (almond apple) Italian cured meats, cheeses and my standby methods for roasting peppers in the broiler. Alongside a quick, homemade pesto, our meal would be complete. We had plans to make homemade pasta on Sunday; another recipe I dug deep for and tested over the course of a year.
Spoiler: this cooking story with Jim ends the same way as the last one, so there’s not much to share with regards to romance - well - nothing beyond the recipes. That weekend I stayed an extra day at his apartment, through Monday, because I’d be leaving for Mexico on Wednesday. This breaking of bread was our last supper.
That Monday morning, Jim went to work and left me alone with coffee. I found myself nuzzled on his couch, surrounded by pillow, with my book and my cake, for one last time. Alone, I sat in the non present presence of his ex-wife’s WiFi and with my thoughts. He came home to drive me back to Queens; we took one last car ride and completed a final thrift shop hunt together. He left me in front of my door “Have a good trip kiddo. Be in touch.” I never felt more sure about needing to leave NY. I never felt more sure about needing space from him, dating, sharing my heart and cooking. Words no woman dreams of hearing, “Have a good trip kiddo. Be in touch.” But, 7 months later, sure enough, I’d break my own heart again. And that would be the end of, Jim and I. Whatever we were.
Do I regret sharing the bread recipe? Do I regret having shared my heart through food?
No. Jim was keeping a recipe file of everything we made together in an effort to collect and create a cookbook of Tina’s Recipes. Maybe that was the sweetest part of the experience, even if it didn’t end so sweetly. Even if it did end with me storming out of his apartment after having met his parents the evening before and finding out he had a girlfriend for over 5 months.
If we keep our hearts to ourselves, our gifts, talents, stories and love - then no one will ever find us.
How could I regret sharing? It’s what we’re here for. But I did walk away. If he wouldn’t choose me, I would keep choosing myself. And I would keep choosing bread.