An Ode to the Angels of Bread


There is something so beautiful and pure about homemade bread:

The way butter melts on it -golden- when still warm from the oven.

How it serves as the perfect vessel to be slathered with whatever spread you desire.

How it sops up the too-good-to-leave-behind sauces at the bottom of your bowl.

What it feels like to be full with a bread belly (and be at peace with that).

So traditional a form of sustenance it is. When you bite into a hunk your mouth and your ancestors mouth are practically one. A hundred of your foremother’s hands kneading for all the feeding they must do. They are all angels for the hours on their feet, for the many loaves they baked for their loves.

I make quick breads but have not ventured further into the angelic art of baking bread (…yet). Which is why, when at the Charlottetown Farmer’s Market, I recommend indulging in one of Angel Baby Bakery’s rounds of sourdough – I promise a small slice will leaven you all the way to heaven.

P.S. Did I mention Angel the baker’s sourdough baby is ancient and comes from Italy? Ask her about it!





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