Hot and crusty-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside bread – the kind you can take a hunk off the end and go at it with gusto.
As a kid visiting my grandparents on Lake Erie, my grandfather would walk to a bakery on the corner and return with two long giant loaves of fresh-out-of-the oven Italian bread, the real kind with seeds on it. You could smell the goodness a block away.
Bread for my grandparents was a staple. I don’t remember they put butter on it, rather my Grandpa used it for dunking, most usually in the spaghetti sauce. My grandmother used it to sop up the olive oil at the bottom of the salad bowl. My aunt coveted the bread as toast with her morning coffee.
I don’t discriminate. I like it all of those ways. But finding good Italian bread around here is next to impossible, which is surprising since Mount Kisco has (had?) a large Italian population. There are French bakeries with croissants but it’s not quite the same. Maybe there’s a business for me. Angelina’s Italian Bread Van – park it in town and sell the hot loaves from there. Of course, I’d need to actually bake the loaves myself and that might require hiring the Keebler elves and staying up all night baking. Oh, and getting a food car license. Hmmm, I’m talking myself out of it already.
I’ve tried like crazy to get on the whole-wheat-twelve-grain bread bandwagon that is supposed to be good for you but I just feel like Ewell Gibbons and didn’t he die because he ate so many nuts and grains? I think so.
I can’t afford the calories and carbs of bread as a staple but I do admit to craving it now and then. I blame my Italian genes.