Day Old Bread

I saw Novella Carpentar do a reading this week from her book, Farm City. She's our current household hero. The cute guy and I loved the book and the urban farm on squatted land but mostly she's our hero for her generous heart that came through in the story. And again tonight at the reading.

Novella's reading and the book I'm currently reading, Righteous Porkchop, have me thinking about farming, past and present. My Grandparents and Great Grandparents on both sides were farmers. Ranch farmers. Between them they had cows, sheep, turkey and chickens. I grew up thinking every one's grandparents came from one ranch or another, had animals and grew food.

One Grandfather could grow anything. Even from his wheel chair he grew prize tomatoes in barrels and baked apple pies. The other collected bags of day old bread from the bakery in town. He fed it to the cows, the dogs. We ate some too.

Dad still gets day old bread from a bakery down the road and feeds it to his doghouse chickens and a pair of crows that recognize his truck. They meet him at the old ranch and start in on the bread in the back of the truck. And then a mile as the crow flies they beat him home where they finish cleaning up the crumbs. "Crazy crows," he says.

The last time I saw him he gave me two loaves of old bread. "It's still good," he said. It felt soft, there was no mold. It was in plastic with a tie and I remembered liking the brand when I ate packaged bread. "Thanks, Dad," I said and put the loaves in the car.

If I had chickens or a dog I suppose I would have fed them some, it's in my blood, but there's just the two of us, the cute guy and I; we had toast. And I have to admit, Dad was right, the bread was good.

Not as good as Farm City or Righteous Porkchop but almost. A little homemade strawberry jam and they'd be equal.