And I don't mean lettuce

I love bread—thick-sliced whole grain for sandwiches, home-baked white with crusts removed for cinnamon toast (which my great-grandmother made for us), challah (don't slice it!), corn tortillas straight from the tortillería (or your abuelita’s hands), tandoori-blistered naan, buttery-flaky croissants washed down with café au lait in the morning, paper-thin lavash for scooping the pilaf and kabob koobideh, cornbread, those pancakes for moo-shu pork, crusty French to soak up the garlicky broth from moules. If I’m missing any, just fill in the blanks yourself.

Not for nothing is bread called the staff of life—it is an integral part of meals around the world. “Our daily bread” is code for all food that sustains us. “Breaking bread” is how we invite friends and strangers alike into our homes and our lives. In many cultures, to haul off and commit violence while either a host or guest is a serious crime, because it violates the sanctity of hospitality, as symbolized by the sharing of bread.

And, speaking of sanctity, also not for nothing does bread symbolize the body of Christ during Communion. Because see above about the staff of life.

So today I’m dreaming of bread in all its manifestations, and I’m thankful for its manifold blessings, both real and symbolic.