Randerolf

Bread is home. For thousands of years, people have fed it to their families. Flatbread. Rye. Yes, laugh as you may, pumpernickel is a noble and proud word. Maybe your mom would make tuna-fish sandwiches and cut them into four smaller squares that made it twice as delicious. Maybe you remember the pride that came with making your first peanut butter and jelly sandwich; you were a kid, but I'll be damned if you weren't overlord of the damn kitchen that day. Maybe you remember your grandmother making a salty, crisp BMT with real tomatoes that came from a yard and not a truck. Maybe your remember your grandfather telling you about butter sandwiches during the hard times, how luck a man he is, and how this is a great country.

Bread is the foundation of eating. As I got older, I would make stupid-kid sandwiches. Take two slices of bread. Add anything. Eat. BBQ sauce? Sure. Pepper? Sure. Try some cold cuts. There would be so much texture and flavors going on in those sandwiches. They were godawful and terrible, but satisfying. I could make and create. It all starts with bread.

Bread is home. Last night, I went to the tiny shop neighborhood shop and picked up some eggs. Eggs. Mayo. Salt and Pepper. Two slices of bread. Last night, I made an egg sandwich. I'm on the other side of the world, but it felt like home.