Have I mentioned my particularly complicated relationship with food? On a regular basis, I freak out over my food. But lately, I've been craving simple. Simple everything. This includes my bread.
Bread takes many forms. There's quick bread... I am really good with this kind. You can do almost anything with it. Irish soda bread. Biscuits. Pumpkin bread with big beautiful southern pecans. Pancakes. (I make the best pancakes on planet Beth... just ask me.) And now, tortillas.
"Tortillas," you exclaim, astonished.
"Why yes. They are a kind of bread."
I make my own now since buying for myself one of those amazing tortilla presses. I make them perfectly round, lightly salted, and flawlessly singed on an iron skillet. I just walk around eating them plain. I pretend I'm on a journey of sorts and I must have foods that sustain me without spoiling quickly, for the expedition is fraught with danger and much moiling and toiling. Yet, I trek fearlessly across the desert of my den into the hostile bogs of the kitchen and I am saved by the little tortilla in my fist, for it's sustenance is enough to nourish my inner hunger for simplicity and perfection and keep me from bingeing on Oreos.
And it's fried corn. I mean, who doesn't love fried corn?
I guess the purpose of writing this has been to more or less pat myself on the back for my cleverness, but if the narcissism fits, wear it. I do make good bread. Even if it's a tortilla.