When my big sister visited recently, she revealed that she'd given up bread. Well...
I reckon I could give up most things if I had to, but bread? Not bread. It's mostly standard wholegrain sliced in this house. And while I'll always be a sucker for the squishy white stuff (smothered in peanut butter, thank you very much), when I can get my hands on a good loaf of sourdough, things always seem a little more right with the world. Thank goodness I've found a place down this way that rivals my old favourite in Sydney. When I'm in town most weeks, I grab a loaf. And for the next few days I enjoy it toasted with a fried egg on top, or some avocado and lime juice, or freshly sliced tomato and salt.
But my absolute favourite special occasion or anytime way is doused in olive oil, grilled and then rubbed with the cut end of a clove of garlic. Magic happens with that little clove. Transformation.
Suddenly that humble grilled piece of bread becomes the basis for a real meal. Bruschetta, crostini, call it what you will. I've topped it with whatever's left in the fridge, or has come home fresh from the farmer's market. I've smeared it with feta and added a big spoonful of smashed herby chickpeas. I've covered it with chargrilled vegetables and shards of parmesan. My current favourite is sauted speck and silver beet topped with a gooey poached egg.
I still make my own bread occasionally - not sourdough yet, but soon. I'd make it every day if I could make the time. I'd grind my own wheat if I had to. God knows, I'd grow the wheat if that's what it took. Just don't ask me to give up bread.
