Bread is the Stuff of Strife

Bread: The Stuff of Strife

Bread is called the Staff of Life, but to me, it’s the Stuff of Strife.

Cereal grains have been a staple in our diet for thousands of years. The simple recipe for bread was probably discovered by accident by someone hungry enough to eat it. Thus begins our saga.

It’s mostly flour, water, salt, a little oil, and yeast. First the yeastie beasties are gently nudged awake by warm water and a bit of sugar. They have a big party, consuming and reproducing and digesting. Co2 is a by product of all this revelry and the gas is trapped by the elastic gluten, a protein that is found in wheat flour. The gas bubbles cause the dough to rise When baked in a hot oven, the result is edible, and the party's over for the yeast.

Like so many other traditional foods, white bread is now considered unhealthy. Apparently we need to limit our carbs to avoid the dreaded belly fat. Too late! The bread is out to get me. I dutifully switched to “whole grain” but only “gained rolls”.

Enter technology. I recently bought a bread maker so that I could control what goes into the food I am eating. At least that’s what the lady on the Shopping Channel said. You simply add a list of ingredients into the pan in the order stated in the recipe, close the lid and push start. In 3 hours, your house smells heavenly and a fresh loaf is ready to be enjoyed.

The other day I decided to whip up a quick loaf. When I got to flour, I realized that I only had 2 cups. The recipe calls for 3 cups. Going to the store was not an option. It was -27C and the car was covered with white stuff that was definitely not flour. My neighbours don’t bake. So, I decided to explore my cupboards. I found some oatmeal, some bran and some cream of wheat. I added some of each to make one cup and threw it into the bread maker. The mix looked soggy, so I threw in more yeast. I was beyond following any rules or recipes. Even on a good day, I always find it a constant struggle to follow directions exactly. The devil is in the details. Just look at Martha Stewart. (sorry Martha but you seriously need to relax a bit).

I was winging it, “wings as in angels, or birds in free flight”.

I closed the lid, hit start and left it alone. About 3 hours later, I smelled that familiar aroma. Divine yes, but not angelic. The loaf was only 5 cm. high, weighed almost as much as I do and quite chewy. I know this, because I was determined to eat it. Belly fat be damned. All that chewing exercise should count for something.

Then there was “The English Muffin Incident.” (whole wheat of course).

It’s no secret that I love a bargain. I sometimes buy baked goods at half price. I just put them in the freezer and take out small portions as needed. All those saved loonies and toonies add up. If I eat a lot of bread, I’ll be going on that world cruise before long. Of course the ship will lean to one side when I get on!! No matter.

On this particular day, I picked up whole wheat English Muffins. After I got home, I noticed that they charged me full price. It was only $1.50 but I was determined to stand up for my rights as a matter of principle. I drove back to the store and marched purposefully back to the courtesy counter armed with the receipt and bag of muffins. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. There was no one behind the counter and no little bell to ring for service.

In a store of 8 checkouts, there was only one opened. The cashier was making a valiant effort to handle all the customers. I waved the muffins to catch her eye.

“Where is the customer service?” I shouted.

“There is no customer service” she said. “No kidding!” I said.

I walked over to her and told her I was overcharged.

“You’ll have to get in line.” she said.

I looked at the long procession of fully loaded carts, the squirming toddlers, the tired mothers all looking at me with solemn faces and said “But I’ve already been waiting over there for 10 minutes.

She was adamant. No deals, no cuts.

“May I please speak to the manager?“ I said as sweetly as I could.

“There is no manager, just the acting manager” she said.

“Well then, may I speak to the acting manager?” my turn to be adamant now.

She paged Mr Acting Manager and returned to her cashier duties.

I waited another 10 minutes, the principle of the thing was losing it’s lustre.

She finally turned around and said, “I’m sorry Ma’m, he must be in a meeting”

I felt like saying that he is probably having a meeting in the Men’s room, but I kept my composure.

I had waited patiently, “acting calm” but had mixed feelings. I felt sorry for the poor cashier who was working very hard. I felt angry at the management for their lack of concern for their customers or employees. And most of all, I felt foolish for having wasted about 30 minutes for a $1.50 refund that never materialized.

So, I smiled weakly at the cashier, mumbled something about writing a letter of complaint to the management and slinked out the door, still holding that guilty bag of English Muffins. I could just feel my belly getting bigger with each step.

It’s not the bread that makes you fat. It’s the stress caused by bread! Bread is the Stuff of Strife.