SUSAN V. SELIGSON
The 'carb' of lifeTHE EFFORT is overdue, but I was relieved to learn recently that the American Bakers' Association and the North American Millers' Association are planning a vigorous defense against the Atkins revolution. The Atkins-fueled "low-carb" crusade has grown so out of control that its logo -- that ubiquitous scarlet letter -- now lurks in every supermarket aisle except pet foods, as well as in television and print advertising. There's no escaping it. It's even turning up, heaven help us, on restaurant menus. A "low-carb" lunch menu? Get outta my face.
The latest manifestation of Atkins madness is an avalanche of newfangled, oxymoronic foodstuffs that somehow manage to be both "carb" and not "carb." Low-carb breakfast cereals, muffins, mashed potatoes? When they sucked out the carbohydrate what exactly did they put in? Bones? I'm reminded of a popular brand of powdered lemonade mix, the label of which assures us that "This product contains no lemon." It doesn't particularly hit a nerve with me when anticarbohydrate zealots malign Cheese Doodles. But I'm sure there are at least a few people who won't accuse me of being a lunatic for asserting that when you demonize bread, you demean life itself. The bread industry's planned public relations blitz carries the still-tentative slogan, "Bread. It's Essential." I couldn't agree more. I would not want to live in a world without bread, and you shouldn't either. Bread captivates me for many reasons. But most of all I love bread because I never tire of traveling to new places to learn how people nourish their bodies and spirits, how they rejoice, mourn, and manage in the face of adversity. The native bread teaches us these things and more. Visit a village bakery or a matron tending a clay hearth to feed her family. Watch, listen, inhale -- the bread tells the most essential human stories. Whose memories are not leavened by the smell, taste, and feel of bread? Bread is deeply personal. Most cultures don't just prefer their signature bread, they require it. Visit immigrant enclaves in cities across America and you'll observe that at the very least, here are the trappings of a community: the church, mosque, or temple, and the bakery. Were I asked to distill the culture and spirit of a faraway place into one tangible object, it would be a hunk of bread. I never tire of its incarnations. A crusty baguette, a dense slab of black bread, a round of pita, chapati, country biscuits, matzo, lavasch -- these are a few of my favorite things. Whether I'm slogging up a mountain or snuggling against the cool leather of a long-distance train compartment, I've taken to keeping my pockets full of the local bread. And when I open my mind, heart, and palate to another culture, its bread is as resonant as the national tongue or currency. Continued... |
