Today I went to the Triangle Farmers’ Market, as I do most Wednesday afternoons. This time, I used my debit card to buy $20 worth of wooden chips to purchase my goods with, since I never, ever, ever have cash on Wednesday afternoons.
I enjoyed visiting with my mama friends (including Jam, from whom I forgot to purchase some pad thai — doh!) and selecting some luscious plum tomatoes, some beautifully mottled bell peppers, and a fat little eggplant. And then I made the decision to check out the bread, because I’ve been wanting to have some toast with almond butter in the mornings.
I think the vendor was Texas French Bread. I approached, the guy said hello, was very pleasant. I said hello back and asked if any of the loaves were sliced. His smile froze and he very condescendingly said, “Neeeeew. None of them are sliced.” He then exchanged a somewhat smug look with the customer who had approached the other table; she said “it tastes fresher when it’s not sliced, right?”
“Right,” said Mr. Precious Bread, and he turned his entire attention to Ms. Doesn’t Need Sliced Bread.
Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps you don’t see the toddler clinging to me like a gibbon. Ever try slicing bread with Mr. “Up Mommy” all up in your grill? Ever try to clean up oh-so-fresh bread crumbs from the kitchen counter while hustling to get out the door at 7:30 in the morning? Better yet, have you SEEN me slice bread? It’s not pretty. If bread was sentient, I could be tried for crimes against breadmanity, it’s that ugly. And if I’m going to pay $4 for a loaf of bread, I want even slices that are not my responsibility. And maybe I’m okay with sacrificing a wee bit of freshness in exchange for having bread I can actually eat and enjoy rather than maim and mangle.
Needless to say, Mr. Precious Bread did not get a single one of my wooden chips.