(sigh). a prompt after my own heart. here goes:
I mean, the bread alone is confounding. This is the base, the foundation, it envelops the rest, it makes for a compelling case to judge by its cover, despite what we’ve always been told. Sturdy, hearty ryes and pumpernickel? Or frivolous, empty-calorie Wonderbread? Middle of the road multigrains with hard crusts and seedy, soft interiors-this is the bread of Goldilocks if she ever moves on from porridge. Sourdough, that curious, delicious option also fitting as a bowl for soup or spinach dip-I’m an equal-opportunity employer. Then there are the non-traditionals-bagels, waffles, pita bread, mini rolls? All of those are charming, none very efficient when it comes to adding a middle layer-odd bread out, the most awkward clubhouse. To toast or not to toast, that is the question. Some get too soggy if you don’t, too hard if you do. Nobody likes bread crumbling within the fingertips-what good is a sandwich too fragile to hold? And neither does anybody need a mouth full of cuts. Scraping the roof dry-the cure? The ultimate sweet sandwich in the sea of savoury-the twisty peanut butter and jelly. Even then, another mere jumpoff of questions-chunky or smooth? Organic or Skippy? Natural is great, but not very practical. No preservatives means it must be stored in the fridge, which brings the natural oils to the the top and endless butter knives are bent hopelessly out of shape before you can even decide whether or not to include a banana. If so, how thinly should you slice? How do you keep those wayward little bastards contained within the bread? Pin ’em down with honey that seeps through the bread to coat your fingers and hold you to the promise not to eat whilst writing, to truly concentrate, but wait-all of this time left to idly reflect illuminates the fact that you really wanted a tuna melt-with havarti…or gouda….or swiss…or cheddar….
maybe all i need in this life is to be commissioned for little writings that allow me to run my fucking brain.
if you want this, get at me.