Bread is forever being perfected: baked in brick ovens, in cast iron pans, and in my own oven, on convection bake.
Poets have written about it, mothers have stuffed countless lunch bags with the standard, but respectable PB&J.
It melts on our tongues at Sunday communion.
It fits in a backpack when running for the train to meet our lover at the park.
It is dark and crumbly, light and airy, blended with oats or rye, flavored with molasses and honey, studded with seeds, and is sometimes just plain sensible.
It loves wine and cheese, fresh fruit, olive tapenade.
It speaks of life.
* * * * *
Some quotes about bread: