bread - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bread had a crunch to the crust that brought so many good memories, and the crumb was that wholesome taste of rustic grain. In that moment of flavour I heard my grandmother's voice; I heard how she spoke, as if each word contained a spoon of love and laughter. Perhaps that's why we call such food "hearty," because it is made with such heart.
On the table sits the still warm loaf. It is a little heavy due to the extra ingredient and her eagerness to bake it cut back on its rising time. So much planning for such an innocuous mixture of flour, water and yeast; so much anticipation; yet so little comprehension for the consequences of her act. In her fervour to become part of the activist group that had courted her attention and set her on her current path, she was about to destroy the only person with the skills to stop the war that was brewing in the districts. In that agglomeration of crumb, crust and poison lay the futures of thousands...
My eyes fall to the bread as my son removes it from the canvass sack, it is how he usually brings home our grain. It is a hearty loaf with nuts and raisins from the bakers a village over. Such delicacies cost more money than we could spend on grain rations in a week. Just its aroma should have been enough to transport me back to happier times of plenty, before our boarders were invaded by the Klankers with their vile cyborg abominations. But instead I weep to just touch the crust, still warm, crunchy, brown. Then the awful truth dawns on me and I can't breathe, Tom can't have gotten this legally, there's just no way...
The honey coating of the bread had charred but the crumb inside was soft and delicate. I put my hand in and pulled it out like a child emptying their christmas stocking. It was a disaster, but one I intended to make the best of.
It was a flat bread like a tortilla and cooked on a large rock over an open fire. It had the taste of the smoke infused with it and was nothing like the polystyrene white bread found in the supermarkets back home.
The bread with the soup was a focaccia, flat and covered with garlic, olive oil and generous quantities of rosemary. As usual mother had stuffed it with goat cheese and since the flour was wholewheat it could really be a meal in it's own right.
The bread was a white loaf, topped with sesame seeds. It was golden brown and crusty. It was warm under my arm and I quickened my pace toward home, thinking all the while how good it would be with the butter melting into it.
The bread was made with dark rye flour, it was denser and smaller than my loaves usually turned out, but it had a satisfying bite and it was filling.
The loaf sat heavy and sallow. Dense bread was alright with Sabine but this was something else. She cast her mind back to the baking process, the flour, measuring the water, adding the sugar and salt. The yeast. She had forgotten it. She picked it up, still hot from the oven and tossed it into the compost bin where it sent up a spray of rotten orange around the kitchen and over her clothes and face. She blinked. So, it was going to be one of "those" days, was it?
I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf slice by slice. I was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.
Stale, heavy, dry, mouldy.
Wholewheat, whole grain, crusty, rustic, poppy seeds, sunflower seeds, unsliced, fresh from the bakers, white bloomer, dunked in homemade soup. Plaited bread, cheese topped, pull apart with your fingers and share. Homely aroma of baking bread. Grandma's bread pudding.