Recently a friend brought me round a still-warm loaf of home-made caraway rye. Feeling the heat through the wrapping induced a wave of happiness I hadn't experienced since I found out that I was right about whodunit in The Killing. And I'd been right since the first episode! (The fact that I'd changed my mind in every subsequent episode is entirely beside the point.)
But just because I rarely have bread at home doesn't mean I don't eat it pretty much every day. I recently went to a food event - the highlight of which was these bad boys:
hands and feet which, come to think of it, might work well dipped into jam or honey. The last time I dipped my toes in some honey, my breakfast companion said it wasn't the done thing at The Wolseley. What is it with young men nowadays? They embarrass so easily.
Anyway, these particular mitts were pretty tasty - the fingers were a little firm, but the palms were beautiful: soft, white cloud innards with a delicious chewy crust. Almost as good as this bread:
|Boiled eggs and soldiers at The St John Hotel|
The second reason I love this bread is that it is smothered in the saltiest paste imaginable - made of anchovies, shallots, vinegar and capers. My whole life seems to be one long Arthurian quest to seek out as much tasty salt and fat as I can find, and ingest it promptly thereafter, and this breakfast meets my needs admirably.