Of the many vivid memories that help shape who I’ve become, it’s the memories from the dinner table which I cherish most, an eager little boy listening to everything embracing all that was said. I’d watch all the hands and mouths going about their joyful tasks imprinting it somewhere in memory. Bread resides in many of those memories.
White bread was all my dad ate, he’d transform white sponginess into a utensil and push food onto his fork with its folded shape, a soft loaf of Tip-Top bread nearly touching his big elbow lay always open, allowing easy access to another slice. My mother savored dark hefty breads wafting with aroma’s from her childhood in the orphanage. Pungent rye filled with caraway seeds was her favorite for sandwiches. My fathers viewed himself and others in a simple easily defined generalizations while my mother saw layers and shades of complexity in most people and situations.