Breadcrumb #679
MARIA NAPOLITANO
I used to scoop raw oats from the canister into paper dixie cups and eat them in the bathroom. Still in the single digits, my mouth was small, my teeth new, my habits strange. I loved how the dry grains filled my mouth and stuck to my throat so I could barely swallow. Little flat husks and dusty waxed paper ratted me out from the undersink trash; I climbed up on the toilet lid to see my the line of my torso stay straight, silently gave up birthday cupcakes for lent, stashed them deep in my third-grade desk — not to save, but not to waste.
I stopped eating, then started again
before I was ready to learn what to do with food.
I meal prepped and shopped in bulk, sometimes ate a block of cheese.
Now I know to sprinkle spices, splash vinegar, taste-test
and don’t carefully measure the pasta water.
I’d had a good day and was ready to make mommy proud, eating my yogurt cup with oats on top. No granola, just little flakes to be ashamed of. I dug the single-serve packet from the back of the pantry, ripped it open, and sprinkled moth maggots onto my after-school snack. Or maybe I took a bite, feeling them dance on my tongue before learning fear again.
My sourdough starter is named Ryeley.
Thank god I put that cutesy line in my bio before the pandemic, before
everyone started baking. I was there first!
impressed with French bread in France, Spanish in Spain, anything
but meh American carbs. I conjured her from the air
with food and water, my mask.
It can’t be healthy to eat like a horse, but google seems okay with it. I don’t know if that makes my habit better or worse – an extra spoonful, right into my mouth, while my oatmeal spins in the microwave. I add peanut powder for protein and listen over my shoulder, panic-swallowing with coffee ready to gulp. I limit myself to one oat meal per day when my digestion begins to suffer.
Ryeley takes two days to wake up, fed twice per day,
growing stronger with each meal.
One bake yields two loaves
one of which will go stale unless I freeze it, carefully wrapped,
one weekend of alchemy on a strict schedule
potentially infinite careful feedings of something besides myself.
It was hard to find oats when the panic shopping began. Who knew everyone ate Old Fashioned, not Quick? We already had two emergency tubs, no need to spring for Quaker’s. Oats, beans, pasta, flour, piled in the cupboard — we can still eat what we want. Fresh bread to brag about, pizza crust to gloat over, crackers and ciabatta and domestic bliss. 36 eggs in the fridge, instead of 18. Enough to last. Just don’t eat too much, don’t run low. Don’t do anything future you will despise, don’t deprive your partner.
Cook Before Sneaking A Taste
Flour is raw
Please cook fully before enjoying
smiles the warning on the bags aligned neatly in the living room cabinet
all purpose (three, and a half-full tupperware in the cupboard)
whole wheat (two, plus the one in the kitchen, with the rye, 00, and semolina
grains beside)
bread (four, a full set)
like that’s even the point of the sneak. You can’t transgress with permission.
But I enjoy the heft and cool weight, e. coli and weevils be damned,
calm rows of bags
deep enough to pour freely into the bowl atop the kitchen scale
rise, fall, rise again
discard thrown into the trash.