We, the children of the seventies - eighties, very fond of bread. We loved it all.
As an idea, as a symbol, as something very important, immutable and perfect ...
We're growing at about the war films on his grandfather's stories about how the nurse would bake him and seven of his brothers cake of quinoa on my grandmother's reproachful look, when leftover crust is sent to the garbage.
We respected the bread. Flaunt, of course, rushing rump in the school cafeteria.
But it was just exactly the element of rebellion.
Terrible crime for which, mind you we have someone from the adult, would be followed by an immediate payback.
And by us after the offense was unbearable shame. It's the same - bread. It's the work of many people and saved many other people from starvation.
In general, we liked the bread. We were taught to love him, and we carried this love, this respect, the almost religious awe through the rest of our lives.
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So, my mother sent you to the bakery. He issued a string bag, 30 cents a trifle, and valuable advice.
And strictly punished surrender not to spend, do not hang around on the streets and bring purchase home safe and sound, it is advisable for dinner.
And then begins the adventure.
You walk into a bakery, making their way to the bread shelves, take (well, you're a grown man and a solid all know how long ago do in his seven years) dvuhzubtsovuyu fork tied twine to the rack driven into cloves, and begin to check the bread on freshness.
Then squeezed, then pressed, then carefully (so that no one saw), poked, and decided - we must take.
True Mom punished only loaf and nothing but the stick - but you have as much as 30 cents, and you dvushku found just under the cash register.
And that means 10 cents you - "extra", and you can spend on fresh, gentle, unbearably rich, bagel. Take? Well, of course we take.
Bagel eaten directly on the porch, because it is impossible to tolerate for a second, and then you bredesh home, raking snow boots and somehow unconsciously biting a loaf of edge.
In the cold it's so fragrant, so tight, a little bit sweet.
And you tear off another piece of teeth - kroooshechny to Mom did not notice.
And then another one. And further... "And it's all"? - vsplesnet mother hands when you're blushing, stretch her shopping bag with a sad grain stump.
And my mom rassmeetsya.- "Well, okay. A neighbor intercepted. But to more no-no. "
And you stand pleased, happy and incredibly grateful mother, neighbor, and of life itself.
And with black bread, loaf, history there have been even more interesting.
When by brick, shopping bags right through the holes, I bite off the corners and then justified to his mother, it was a hlebushek. There, in a bakery, so today brought all the...
And my mom pretended to believe it, and that she then would go to the bakery and tell them to bring only a bread...
By the way, while prices across the country certainly different, as they have been explained, but the assortment of bread was almost the same.
It seems to me that the bread still tastes better, it was real.
Perhaps this age... well, like trees as a child over and above.
But normal rye bread or ever, my favorite bagels, now do not buy, say changed the recipe, which is a pity ...
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