There is little I won't do for good bread. A (penciled) line has been drawn at murder, but humiliation isn't out of the question, and inconvenience a given. My grandfather made it clear: The choice to be at his favorite Philly doughnut shop at 6 a.m. was no choice.
Narrowing the window between oven and mouth, a do-what-you-must imperative. Good bread, especially in the States, still requires a similar degree of sacrifice, and I'm willing to twist my life into balloon shapes for a perfect crust and crumb — even brave the trek to the westernmost reaches of Orlando. To Orlando that is not Orlando.
