Give Me The Daily Bread

It was bread night on Masterchef Australia last night.

I know, I know, Masterchef right? But now that Project Runway has finished but how else do I appease the wee gay man inside of me? And no RayWay, I’m not talking about you. Not this time anyway.

Now I get a serious case of the moistees when I see a good loaf of bread. Ciabatta is my favorite and I will gladly eat the stuff till I’m passing loaves of it, but I equally like any bread with a good hard crust on.

Every time we go to one of those farmers markets things - which to be fair is rare because I have a thing about crowds - I stand at the bread place staring longingly at the fare, just wanting to stroke the perfectly formed mounds of sour dough.

I like the look of the one that’s blacker than a black mans cape too but haven’t yet tried it and I’m always partial to a nice stiff baguette and, occasionally, a seeded loaf. I do draw the line at olives though. Not in my bread or my stool fuck you very much.

When I was younger my step father used to take me down to a bakery where his brother worked on Saturday mornings. He’d help him load up the trays full of freshly baked loaves ready for the pick up by the distribution trucks.

Whilst they spent the hours doing that I went around the loaves ripping of the melted cheese and crusty bits. Needless to say the guys at the bakery were not pleased but I was right chuffed because we had to take all the fiddled with loaves home to eat but only after I had been given a good tanning across the buttocks with step father’s belt. Still, I’d call that a result.

Incidentally, you would have thought that I would have learnt my lesson form that wouldn’t you? Some years later whilst living at the camping ground with Grandad I took to taking sips from the trays of 1.5 litre fizzy beverages he stocked to sell in the on site shop. You know the ones, with the safety seal on the cap? And to think I thought no one would notice…criminal genius I wasn’t.

Speaking of baking, I’d like to give a quick shout out to Remco Funke, the friendly Dutchman with the porn star name who is a long time listener, first time caller and although we have never officially met, I am reliably informed tunes in regularly. Welkom Remco, which translated from the Dutch means ‘welcome’. I like you already.

Like so many of my adult weirdness I blame my step father for my bread fetish, for it was he that would nip down to the local dairy on a Sunday morning and return with a crusty tiger loaf under one arm and the Sunday News under the other. Of course back in those days said Sunday News always had a Page 3 girl so clearly I equated her baps with those of the crusty variety and thus an erotic connection was made.

Much in the same way some folk say that we fellas love a navel piercing because it reminds us of the staples in a stick mag. I wouldn’t know about that, I hardly ever made it as far as the middle on those things; the articles were always too good.

I never did last the entire episode of Masterchef last night either, once they started fondling their Artisan Rye Sourdough and banging their dinner rolls together I had to change channels...