Tales of the Golden Legend
The Sound of Crust
I was born at 350� in a small, white gas oven. I first became aware inside this metal box as the yeast died screaming silently within me. I lay upon a baking sheet, in darkness relieved only by the pulse of flame visible through round holes in the bottom of my oven-box. I burned with life. I was alone. Time meant nothing. I had being, I had substance. I wondered, is this life, this metal womb?
A sudden light as the door swung down and oven mitts reached toward me—Mother?
My creator, a young woman with hair golden like corn flour, pulled me from the oven and set my baking sheet on a wire rack. As I began to cool, I exulted in my newness, stretched the limits of my crust. At this point I had no notion of those who came before me. I was the universe. Then, The Awareness overcame me—the knowledge of all bread. What can I say about the flames that catalyzed my birth that better loaves have not already said? Potatoes are always potatoes. Water boils, cheese melts, but bread alone mutates. Yeast is one form of life, bread another. From bread all life begins and is sustained.
Unfortunately, bread baking is not a genetically acquired skill, and I, a round loaf of buttermilk white bread, am the young woman’s first attempt. I dwelled too long in her oven. I have air pockets, and my crust is far too thick, too chewy. I know I don’t have a rewarding life to look forward to; when she realizes the extent of her failure, she will lose her desire to eat me and I will mold.
Because gestation continues out of the oven, bread should not be sliced for twenty to forty-five minutes after birth. So I sit on a rack awaiting my fate. I can sense her impatience while she paces in front of me. She stops several times and stares at me unfocused, as though looking out from a dream. Her face is soft and round, like a hamburger bun. She smiles at me, touches my crust lightly, bends over to smell me. I relax when she leaves the room.
I hear her on the phone. Then I panic. She is inviting someone to come over and share me. I wish the poor woman could understand our language, for I would tell her of her failure. Will she be embarrassed when, with anticipation flooding her senses, watched by her friend, she slices into me? The knife will struggle through my outer shell. She may flatten me if she isn’t careful. Then she will see the air pockets.
As a white bread I am sweet but not deep. Yet I have feelings. And I carry the weight of centuries of bread knowledge, bread awareness. I know the ovens of our past as well as my own birthplace. We have a fondness for brick, for the artistry of a loaf made without controlled temperatures. Sometimes we think that bread’s time has passed. People’s lives move too quickly for us, and we do not travel well.
She’s pacing again. I wonder how far away her friend lives. In ten minutes I will be ready for slicing.
My crust will make me difficult to eat. Perhaps they will dig out the soft flesh within. Perhaps the young woman’s friend will be polite and eat me with feigned enjoyment and much butter. Oh, but worse, what if they can’t recognize that I’m not a good loaf? If they have no concept of what bread should be?
I just realized I haven’t seen her knife. I hope she has the right kind. The edge must be serrated. Pulling a loaf apart with the hands is a natural act, but mutilation with the wrong knife is agony. I fear I will be crushed beneath the clumsy pressure of an inexperienced hand and an improper blade.
What will happen to me, I wonder, after these initial slices, while I, still warm, am the center of their food world. All bread grows cold, changes in texture. A mediocre bread becomes worse. Will I sit, forgotten on the shelf until I turn rock-like? Or, into her too-small freezer to chill the life from me? Like trying to tell time from a sundial left in the shade, bread is useless if not eaten.
A knock at the door and she runs into the living room to open it. They kiss; he makes dutiful compliments about my appearance. I’m worried now. The first slice is always difficult. The waiting and then the cutting. Where is the knife? I must see it.
Good. They have a real bread knife. Twelve inches long with a seductively curved wooden handle. I palpitate. I wait. He takes it out of the cardboard packing, runs tap water over it, dries it. He’s ready. The expectation is killing me. He hands it to her. No, she gives it back. Please, please, I’m ready. Let me feel it.
