Maybe it was only hunger.
I inverted the loaf pan and pulled the cinnamon bread free.
It had felt cool so I placed it onto a cutting board. I knocked. It sounded hollow. The crust had a delicious lacquer finish to it. I ran my hand over the top. It felt smooth and perfect.
It was with a deep breath that I sliced into it. An inch in from the end. Carefully. I tend to cut into bread too soon. But, this time, it was not too soon. It was just right.
I'm certain eyes widened and I know I smiled. A swirl of cinnamon. A lovely crumb. Crumb. Crust. Everything was oddly correct. As it should be.
My confidence had done wonders. Just follow the directions, I had told myself. Relax. It's only bread.
It's only bread.
I examined the slice, staring at me face up on the cutting board. I put the knife down. I picked up the knife. I rotated the slice, looking for the perfect angle in which to cut a piece for tasting. I put down the knife once again.
It doesn't matter what you look like, if you don't taste good...
I picked up the knife and sliced. I examined the piece and took a bite.
Suddenly, the hole was filled. It fell to my stomach as if on a mission.
I couldn't wait for Roberto to try it. I wondered if he would try it. It was nearing the dinner hour.
"It's so good...that...that it has the power to mend a hole in ones heart." I blurted.
"Or maybe the hole in ones stomach?" I said.
"Most likely." He said.
Roberto took a piece and ate it quickly. No hesitation.
"It's good." He said.
"It is good. I'm surprised. Really." I said.
The next morning we ate thick slices, toasted, with strong coffee while watching Sunday Morning.
"Who's this guy...Where's the guy?" Roberto asked.
"He has a cold." I said.
After breakfast I bagged up half of the remaining loaf to bring across the street along with The Bread Bible for Roberto's father. I had marked a prosciutto bread recipe that I thought he might be interested in seeing.