My grandmother made the
best, wholesome, homemade
bread ever. But my mother,
never baked a loaf in her
life. She bought store-bought
and I loved it almost as much
as my grandmother’s whole-
some homemade, warm and
wonderful with melted butter.
It was like a foreign object —
spongy, soft, with many tiny
holes, like something I had
never seen before but came to
love. When I squeezed it, I
now compare it to something
I have seen on TV — bears
squeezing toilet tissue.
As I squeezed the bread, I’m
sure I heard it breathe inside
its cellophane packaging. I
would grab a slice, tear off
the soft, brown (dare I call
it?) crust, gobble it up
and squeeze the slice into
a ball of dense, doughy
wonder and pop it into my
mouth, then chew and chew
and chew and swallow really
hard and run to the sink
for a drink.