On the Matter of Bread...

Henryʼs father has recently become both unemployed and divorced. Among the reasons for Henryʼs unfortunate circumstance is his motherʼs inability to effectively manage the family budget, especially the food budget. The family ate out far more often than they could afford to. Consequently, Henry has developed a fondness for the “Dancing Sandwich” at Zingermanʼs Delicatessen in Ann Arbor. At a cost of more than $6.00 per sandwich, Henryʼs father can no longer afford to feed him in the manner to which he has become accustomed. Additionally, the divorce has forced Henryʼs father to move to a much rougher, less affluent neighborhood, and he is not thrilled about the children Henry is likely to meet in these new surroundings. Itʼs a sad new state of poverty in which they find themselves. Both Henryʼs life and that of his father are rife with new challenges which must be met. What Henryʼs father needs is a solution to both the problem of feeding his son and keeping him off dangerous streets, away from neighborhood hooligans.

His father would like to provide Henry with a favorite sandwich at a price he can afford. The solution to the dilemma must also take longer than the five minutes normally required to assemble a typical sandwich. This is a father who needs to keep his son occupied. Furthermore, Henryʼs father is concerned about what his son is eating. He has to feed his child good tasting, healthy foods. After all, Henry is a growing boy. Therefore, these two men (young and old) must find a reasonably entertaining solution to their problem that is also time consuming, healthy and delicious.

Much of the cost of the sandwich in question is due to the expensive French bread used to make it. The least expensive loaf of bread available from Zingermanʼs website is currently priced at $4.50 (on sale from the regular $6.25). However, in her article “Cost of Bread Baking - How Much Does Bread Cost? - Bake or Buy Bread?”, on the website about.com, Jennifer McGavin estimates the cost of baking a French baguette to be approximately $1.58, or less if one can bake more than one loaf at a time (para. 13). Not only does Henryʼs father have all the necessary ingredients (flour, yeast, salt, water), he also has an abundance of free time (heʼs unemployed, remember), which is a good thing. Baking a loaf of proper French bread takes almost three hours. Fortunately for Henry, itʼs also terribly simple, since his father has little experience baking. Clearly, Henryʼs father has only one option; He must bake the expensive bread himself with Henryʼs assistance. Henry will be occupied for hours, doing a wholesome activity and learning a valuable skill at the same time. His father will know exactly where Henry is and they will both eat well on their tiny budget. Best of all, they can enjoy other pursuits at the same time, like listening to music, and nothing tastes as good, or makes a house smell better, than fresh bread straight from the oven.

Fetching Isabella

It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride. There was not a cloud in the sky, it was warm - mid 70s, and no wind. Smells came to me that people miss enclosed in their cars, windows rolled up, air conditioning on. Smells of freshly cut grass, of trees... smells that make riding the bike a treat. I wheeled into the parking lot, past rows of mini-vans and SUVs, and parked the bike in a small triangle not normally allowed for parking, but I fit perfectly. My daughter had brought the extra helmet today, her very first full day of school ever, so I could give her a ride home on the bike.


Her school is a low, sprawling red brick building. Approaching the front doors, I looked into windows, and classrooms filled with children readying their backpacks to walk home, or board school buses. My girl was the only one preparing to depart by motorbike.
Once inside, I recognized the familiar interior of a typical elementary school. Wide hallways wore a thousand coats of white paint on cinder block walls, and a dozen neatly dressed suburban mothers waited outside the school office to pick up their own children, chatting among themselves. As I walked past them, I looked at myself. I’d come straight from work, in white tee shirt, black jeans and black work boots, all covered in dirt and grime from a ten hour workday, my beard in tiny braids, tattoos showing on both short-sleeved arms. I smelled the stink of myself, sweaty from a physically demanding job. Sweat was running down the back of my neck. A dirty, smelly contrast I was to all those mothers dressed in colorful tops, pressed khaki slacks and clean shoes. Didn’t I look exactly like the unwholesome stranger these mothers told their babies to avoid.
The school day had not quite ended, so I sat myself against a wall with a clear view towards Isabella’s classroom to wait. It couldn’t be more than five minutes until students were let out. Did I feel all those maternal eyes on me, or was it all in my imagination? Regardless, I was none too pleased when a small boy, dressed neatly in shorts and a tiny striped golf shirt approached me and sat right next to me. Was he really going to sit that close? Panic. Owen, he said his name was. Looking at my helmet, he asked if I was on a motorcycle. Yes I was, and I was taking my daughter home on it. All those mothers must certainly be looking now, listening intently to make sure I was not having an inappropriate conversation with somebody’s little angel. Be careful not to ask any personal questions - “Where do you live?”... “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He spent a couple minutes talking to me about a video game I had never heard of.
The bell finally rang, ending the school day, and Owen and I both arose from the floor as the hallway filled with little children, and the din that accompanied them. How do these mothers find their own kid in this chaotic throng? Their children find them, that’s how. Hollers of “Papa!” were my first comfortable experience since I had arrived, and I saw my six year old girl half-running toward me, toting a helmet she could barely carry. Walking outside hand in hand, I informed her of my new friend Owen, a boy she knew. A crossing guard stopped traffic to let us into the parking lot, and told Isabella what a lucky girl she was to get a motorcycle ride home on such a lovely day.
A few minutes later, helmets on, we were on our way, accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of “Boo-yah!” from the small voice directly behind me. It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.