Bread is my Prozac, my Paxil, my Zoloft. It hushes the doubts, scolds the butterflies, insists that oversized baggage must be checked at the gate. Please — butter the bread, always salted, for an everything-is-all-right-with-the-world burst that sends neurons scuttling along synapses to tell you that, Yes, I feel good.
Only one type of bread counts. Sourdough, of course. It's complicated and righteous — the best kind of complexity. One bite and the crunch, the heft, the gloriousness of it — well.
I am leaving you with three bakeries that will make you realize all you need is bread and salt and butter to know that everything is going to be OK.
Happy new year.