The story of bread. Special Thanks to The New Yorker

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April 28, 2016


[Male #1]: Whether it's
a scone, a muffin, or a loaf
all mass produced bread-like
products star out the same,
as gooey blobs of raw dough.
After being thoroughly mixed,
the dough is formed into
different shapes depending on
the final product, often by hand.
These round discs
will become kaiser rolls.
The discs are dusted
with flour so they'll separate
smoothly from
the conveyor belt.
Then they're brushed with
oil for flavor, and sent to the oven.
Once baked, the rolls
are sent to the cooling room.
When they're cool to a 100 degrees,
they're safe to pack in plastic,
and shipped to local
restaurants and grocery stores.
Upon arrival the bread is
sorted, priced, and placed on the shelves,
allowing for easy access by
shoppers in all shapes in sizes.
After being purchased, the
bread is transported in plastic
or paper bags
to idling cars, and
then nestled into trunks, or
between the kids in the
backseat for the long ride home.
Bread is a welcome
addition to any family dinner,
helping to bring everyone
together before they peel off
again to their own
particular corners of the house,
and disappear deep
into their own thoughts.
Even this one will be
starting school before you know it.
When she comes home
you'll ask, "How was your day?"
And the answer is
always one word, "Good. Fine."
But remember, you did the
same thing when you were her age.
Days turn to weeks,
weeks to years.
Soon enough you and Diane
are alone again asking yourself
where all the time has gone.
Are we supposed to return to
the people we were before the kids,
or are we
supposed to begin anew?
How do we remember how
to be just the two of us again?
Memories are nothing
but firing synapses,
unreliable and faded, shifting
like the cold New England sands
by your father-in-law's
beach house.
But memories strung together
become the measure of a
life well spent,
like a collection of coins from
a country long ago dissolved.
The value is
now yours to assign.
Nietzsche once said,
"We love life, not
because we are used to living,
but because we
are used to loving."
You reflect on those
words first told to you by a friend
who's face you can't
remember as you drift off to sleep.
You dream.
♪ ♪
Join us next time for, shoes.
♪ ♪