Life without bread: Part 1

Bread and husbands, it seems, have plenty in common. No it’s sadly nothing to do with dough (not in my case anyway!) but perhaps husbands can also lead to some intolerance.
As I mentioned last week, I’ve been on the look out for bread-free lunches recently in a strangely altruistic move that’s down to my husband.
Now, I love bread. All sorts of bread but especially that rosemary and olive oil bread they sell in Selfridges with has a soft crumbly interior, shards of rosemary and a crunchy, perfect crust to hold it all complete.
And I don’t think it’s ever really caused me any ill-effect – apart from the fact that I’ve grown to rely on it and I’ve just realised the previous sentence makes me sound like an addict looking for a fix.
Until recently my breakfast was toast, my lunch a sandwich and it wasn’t unheard of for me to accompany dinner with some more bread too.
But I liked to think of it as a more companiable activity, a comforting harmless devouring of the daily loaf – after all isn’t breaking bread is a sign of friendship and peace.

Oh no, don’t alcoholics think of drink in these social terms

However, Himself was having a very different experience. Over a few rounds of toast one weekend morning I suddenly noticed that he was having quite a violent reaction to the bread.
Hot and complaining that he felt unwell I thought back to all those books and articles I’d read on wheat intolerance and promptly advised him of my un-expert diagnosis.
According to all the experts I’d read, part of the problem with food intolerance is that our bodies perversely crave what is bad for us. It seem that there is a spiral of addiction in which bread and cow’s milk are quite the evil twins.
Surprisingly Himself agreed that we would avoid the bread for a bit and see what happened.
I found the first two days really hard. No hot toast dripping with butter – replaced now by yoghurt, honey and fruit.
No sandwich and definitely, never, ever bread and olives.
Being a bloke, Himself never entered into the discussion about it being difficult – stiff upper lip was obviously the order of the day.
But once that tough couple of days were out of the way I made tentative inquiries. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” he said “It’s not difficult at all”.
A little surprised I persisted and asked what he had managed to find for his lunches during the week. “Oh I just had wraps, they’re alright you know” he said reassuringly.
Marriage, like bread, obviously requires a little tolerance to succeed.
Thanks to the photographers at Flickr for the bread shots.


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