Bread and butter

I found a piece of myself shopping for bread, smelling the round loaves and deciding which I would like to eat. I remember grocery stores: neat rows of vegetables and cans. I remember holding my father's hand as he collected the necessary ingredients, as he scanned price tags and nutrients labels, picking the appropriate nourishment. Grocery stores were both a chore and a mystery: cold, unfamiliar, almost unreal.   

I am at university now, in my own apartment. I own my mouth. It is up to me to feed it. But I don’t have my father’s iron will. I pass over the vegetables, repelled by their intimidating green. I skip the cans, even their price does not compensate for the effort of opening them. I find myself staring at the bread, at the beautiful curves of a ruined sculpture. I want to make a loaf. I want to build a delicious monument to orchestrated imperfection. But first, I must get acquainted. I buy a lovely loaf, it’s sourdough and its smell has depth. It is crowned by a break in its crust. It seems to smile like it wants to be eaten. I hold my loaf. It is mine. I chose it. My hands are filled with my desire. I carry it carefully. It is a precious thing. It is my precious thing. 

“Would you like a bag?” the man at checkout asks me.

“I think I would like to look at it a bit longer,” I say sheepishly. He stares at me, then shakes his head, handing back the loaf. I know that soon this small ritual of buying bread will become a utilitarian function of independent life. But now it brings me a joy that description would only deface. I plan to cherish every moment: the picking, the carrying, the eating. I imagine delicately slicing the first piece. I know that scoring the crust will reveal a smell that is even more pervasive. I smile in anticipation. 

I walk along the sidewalk. It leads straight to my apartment. My loaf is caressed lovingly in my arms. I attract a few stares, but not as many as one might expect. I am walking in a city. In such a large collection of people, quirks are inevitable. I beam down at my bread, not embarrassed in the slightest. I walk up the stairs to my apartment carefully. The last thing I want to do is drop my loaf before I have the chance to admire it on my kitchen counter. I reach the door of my apartment. I am giddy with the thought of breakfast successfully procured. I walk to the kitchen, eyeing my shiniest knife (I have three!). I place the bread delicately on my new cutting board. Then slowly, reverently, I slice a fat piece of sourdough. The aroma permeates my stomach. I am about to take a bite, but something doesn't feel right. There is a piece missing. A glaring error, that I can feel, but not see. I tighten my jaw, determined to not let doubt destroy my pride. I take a bite. It’s dry. Butter. I want to cry. I forgot butter. I put down my slice. The hand, which only moments before stretched eagerly towards my mouth, wilts, before landing empty on the countertop. I am shattered, betrayed. 

I storm back to the grocery store, berating myself with each stomping step. Butter. I love butter. The bread entranced me. I lost myself. I lost my purpose in the gentle enticing rhythm of its smell and the way its crust seemed to contain a million variations of a smile. Smiles that I wanted to eat. Butter. I’ll find my butter and claim success with a delicious slice of butter-slathered sourdough. 

The checkout man remembers me. “You’re back,” he calls. 

I shrug, embarrassed. “I forgot butter.” 

“Bread is no good without butter.”

I nod, though I don't entirely agree. The butter is in the cold aisle where the refrigeration systems hum, laboring to keep their inmates fresh. The refrigerated aisle is a bit sad, but there the butter sits. I choose a few sticks wrapped in gold foil and whisper to them, “My bread will melt your heart.”