Bye-Bye Bread

I don't know about you, but I absolutely love bread - not the soft, fluffy, rubber stuff sold as an edible napkin, but the scrunchy, chewy, whole grain staff of life bread. I can pass by decorated cakes without a twinge and eyeball ice cream as if were something alien and unappealing. But show me a slice of rich pumpernickel or marbled rye, and my knees buckle. There are breads that make sandwich filling unimportant: olive and herb rolls, panetone, extra sourdough, cheese rolls, raisin bagels, onion bread, poppyseed, sesame seed, and caraway.

Such breads are, we are frequently told, healthy and nutritious and make up part of a fiber-rich, natural diet. Unfortunately, the amount I'm likely to eat, once I start, is going to seriously derail my weight loss efforts. Cutting out butter and margarine, eschewing salad dressing above the 3 calories per tablespoon level, and eliminating fast foods and soft drinks does have a marked effect on my caloric intake. But I find that to really lose pounds, and keep them off, I have to pass on my favorite breads.

I hate it. Why can't I enjoy one of my favorite foods without paying through the nose (actually through the abdomen and hips)? It's so unfair! Well, Virginia, life is unfair and I have to learn to live with it. My body just can't handle the carbohydrate load without burgeoning out of control. I suppose if I were really fitness-motivated, I'd run a few miles so I could have a fabulous sandwich. But, I admit it, I'm an exercise-phobe, barely able to make it through my minimal daily stretches.

I push my cart with blinders on through the aisles littered with stacks of baguettes, cocktail loaves, buttery croissants, and seed-encrusted bagels three times the size of those of childhood. I shed a tear at the frozen counter where that almost-instantly fabulous Bridgford mix calls my name. I drive four blocks out of my way to avoid passing the Italian market with the cristiest bread ever baked by man. In restaurants I become remarkably adept at covering the rolls and garlic bread with my own, and my dinner companion's, napkins (it has to really stay out of sight).

Facing my weaknesses with guilt and self-criticism, I reluctantly conclude that bread has to go. Angry and resentful, but miserably aware of the choices I must make, I bid farewell for life to breads I will now only enjoy in my dreams.

The alternative means getting fat and I'm just not going to go there.