Breaking Bread

I am sad. I am an avid sourdough baker (twice a week for 35 years), and I am a woman, and the combination sends other women running in horror. So many women I know have decided that bread is as dangerous as heroin, chocolate, meat, or potato chips, and mustn't be found in the home. They are also self-conscious around my baking skill, believing they fall short of some domestic ideal. When visiting, they often flat-out refuse my bread, the bread one breaks for the sake of community, calories be damned.

Bread and chocolate and meat are daily in my life, as is dancing and running and walking and bicycling. I am not obese or unhealthy or overly domestic. I love my appetite, and I love to think about, dream about, and share food. A sad day is a day with no appetite, and a sad year is a year with nobody to share my bread.