Nobody Asked But I'll Tell You Anyway: Bread

    Greetings from your friendly neighborhood Bulgarian! Thanks for having me at this potluck called America. You’ve got your Melting Pot going over here and everything... I’m more of a barbecue gal myself, but really I’m just happy to be invited at the table. In return for your hospitality, I’d like to offer my humble services as a cultural consultant. Pro bono, of course.

I’ve also brought bread. 

    What’s that? Oh, you already have bread… I’m awfully sorry, but I fear you are mistaken. See, the undercooked slab of starchy carbohydrates that passes for bread in this country is garbage. I know that’s hard to swallow (pun totally intended). No matter how you package and pre-slice it, mass produced, store-bought white bread is inedible. The loaf is all the wrong shape, the texture is spongy, and it tastes weirdly pungent and bland at the same time. The wholegrain is a dry brick of bird feed, and the sourdough ain’t nothing but a pocket of air inside a burnt crust.

    The Free World deserves better than soggy hotdog buns and dinner rolls made of what appears to be sugar, sawdust, and sadness. And please, for the sake of everything we hold dear, let’s stop committing felony offenses against the culinary arts. Absolutely nobody asked for that twelve-seed, broccoli and coconut-flavored atrocity they sell at Trader Joe’s for $12.50. Respectfully but, like, ew. 

    Listen. This is awkward. But you need to trust me, okay? Though I’m no expert on much, I know about bread. Being from the Balkans, I’m practically 93 percent gluten. I understand the nature of wheat on a molecular level.

   

    In America, bread is a trivial commodity, which is precisely the problem. You aren’t savoring it because you don’t appreciate it, and that’s because you fail to recognize its true significance. 

    Where I come from, bread is fundamental. It is the defining symbol of life itself, for it used to be just as preciously scarce. For a number of historical reasons I won’t bore you with, bread was often the only thing that held extinction at bay—both of my people and their culture. And so, the act of kneading and baking bread became a sacred ritual. This ordinary, simple meal didn’t merely sustain the body. It nourished the spirit within, thus making the preservation of Bulgarian identity possible. That’s what makes the bread back home so phenomenally delicious. Its singular, most vital ingredient is endurance. 

    Now, I’m not usually one to glorify the virtues of the American colonial past, or advocate for reconnecting with the traditions of, erm, the old-country. Where bread is concerned, however, I don’t see a way around it. Our Great Nation would do well to remember the gastronomical heritage of the French. Alternatively, we could adopt an Eastern European attitude to baking. Namely, treating bread as if our very survival depended on it. At the risk of sounding dramatic, mine kinda does.

I love it here, guys. I truly do, but damn. I’m fucking starving.