It was like chalk. It tasted like chalk. But she loved the stuff. Slice after slice. I couldn't believe it. I had slipped mine to the dog twenty minutes before and she was chipping off a fourth slice from the mother loaf. And the jam they had to spread on the stuff. Syrupy. Overly sweet and runny. Maybe trying to compensate for the chalk. I don't know. Maybe not.

There are two instances where I get it. I understand eating lots of bad food. One is when you find yourself chatting away really delightfully with a nice British person you just met who is simply fascinating. You get a little nervous and you suddenly remember how nice it is to hold onto a chalky piece of bread. A nice prop to develop a bit of business around. Maybe an interested nod just as you take a bite, followed by an mmhmm through a mouthful of bread paste.

The other instance is when you're staring dead ahead, glazed over. Perhaps at a funeral. Or a wedding. And the only sign you're alive is that you keep shoveling chalky bread into your mouth. You need to remind yourself as much as the other guests that you're still breathing. Again, you're essentially looking for a prop here.

But she. Oh no. She needed no prop. Her hands were doing all the talking. She went so far as to put the bread down when she wasn't eating it. She disdained it as a prop. But as food, she couldn't get enough. And there was hummus. With carrots. Very good. Tasty, moist, savory. But she couldn't be effed.

I was, in theory anyway, talking to Pete from the grocery. The fancy grocery next to Mike's Electric. Pete was holding forth on his theory that suspension bridges were the key to Mayan success, but also, ultimately, mysterious demise. It actually was very interesting. And more substantiated than I had first given Pete credit for.

But it wasn't long into the 13th century when I noticed her across the room. No. Nono. On the other side of the island. We were in the kitchen. I had been there 40 minutes and hadn't yet ventured past the kitchen. That's where the hummus was, after all. With the carrots. But it's also where that terrifying bread was and Sylvia was looking like she was getting ready to foist another piece on me. In short, I wasn't long for the world of the kitchen. But she didn't look like she would leave for all the shallots in Pete's fancy grocery. Which, I noticed the other day, is a very sizable amount.

Look. The point is, despite looking forward to the arrival of the conquistadors and their impact on the history of suspension bridges, I couldn't get my mind off this girl. I would drift in and out of bridgeland but mostly my eyes were glued to that bread. She was camped out next to the dusty matriarch of the batch. Slicing off a piece whenever a drop of saliva threatened to settle in her mouth. She sneezed once and I half expected a cloud of flour to billow forth.

I've felt for sometime, and I think Pete can back me up on this, that bread is not the hardest thing in the world to make. Not that all bread is great. A really superior loaf is rare, but most folks can approximate something close to edible. That Sylvia had failed was surprising. That this girl hadn't noticed was beyond words. Beyond comprehension. Because I did eventually find the words.

My cheeks were flushing. I was sure it was obvious I was staring. It would have been less embarrassing if I'd been looking at her cleavage or something. As it was I was blatantly checking out her loaf. I wish I was being euphemistic. She was not a knockout. A pretty girl. Easy on the eyes, certainly. Especially if you kept the eyes away from the monstrosity she kept shoveling into her mouth. But I couldn't. Like a moth to a flame, I gazed at that damn bread.

I found myself in Egypt once. With family maybe. On business. Through school, somehow. It's not important. What is important is that I had the most amazing bread of my life. It was incredible. It dared you to leave room for dinner. It double dog dared you. Sylvia's creation was like some distant, 15th generation ancestor of that bread. With lots of inbreeding.

And then Pete's conquistadors came. And in theory, I was fascinated. I know a thing or two about conquistadors and had been looking forward to this part of the conversation. But in practice, I was moving. Around the bar. Across the room. Whatever it was. I was moving. Away from Pete and toward the horrible bread and its lone devotee. I had seen her eyeing a fifth piece and could stand it no longer. Just as she reached for the knife I arrived.

In the nick of time, if you ask me. I grabbed her wrist. She looked at me. I looked at the bread. I shuddered. She made a puzzled face. I said that I was taking her away. Away from all... this. Sylvia. The bread. The jelly. Even the conquistadors. I may have mentioned Egypt. I said I was taking her out to eat. At the best restaurant we could find and money could buy. I said she was throwing herself away. I said that this bread was horrible and she deserved better and didn't she know that? I said what I could never tell anyone else. I said I cared. I said it would all be over soon. I said I would take her away from the bread.

She said, "But I like it."

Typical.

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