The Last Bite

Begin with Bread

You have to start somewhere
and I was perfectly content
with white bread and butter.
I adopted rituals early.
After buttering my toast,
I used the cinnamon and sugar dispenser
to draw a giant Z for Zorro.

I considered a challah
as beautiful as a bouquet of flowers.
I had reverence for it,
just as I revered the loaf of sourdough
I lifted from the outdoor cooling racks
of Larraburu on Sixth and Geary.

One of my grandmothers,
the one who filled my pockets
with unwrapped sticky candies
that had been in candy dishes for a generation,
liked to ask which grandma I preferred.
I crafted the perfect answer:
“How can you compare lox and bagel
with a schmear of chopped liver on challah?”

My father had a favorite sandwich:
sliced red onion on pumpernickel.
The coarsely-ground dark rye
was too dense for my early taste,
and I shied away from a sandwich
that called for mouthwash.

After leaving home, banana bread
became a thing for a minute,
along with its cousins zucchini and pumpkin.
There was also cornbread from a cheap mix.
Although it stuck to the bottom of the Pyrex pan,
I carved out one crumbly square after another.
It went well with the eternal chili.