From the title alone you are already suspicious we are dragging a soapbox across the garden to the top of the hill. That any minute now we will strip naked, daub ourselves in woad, grow our hair long and lank, mount the soapbox in earth fibres and waggle in the wind words that deride you for buying shop bought bread. You probably think we hate you. We don't. It's your body, you can put what you want into it. We've covered what is in supermarket bread. Television chefs and crusaders have told you what is in shop bought bread, biscuits and beetroot. You've been told how a chicken can feed you for three days and how beef can be stretched out into a thin steak that will feed an entire country. Hell, we all know that eating fast food kills us but it still tastes good. Food to you is food, it's fuel, you're powered on caffeine and E-numbers. You're sorted for Es and fizz in your bloodstream. You may have got to the stage where you know the supermarkets make up farm names, farmers and names of vegetables. We hear that one supermarket is launching snozzcumber juice for hipsters. It's made of fairtrade shit and self importance. It's another lie. You lunch out on lies. You eat lies. You shit lies. On a good day you'll tell people it's a lie as you dig into fairtrade chocolate that is about as fair about trade as you are about being asked to pay 5p for a plastic bag that rips on the way back to the car. You know lies. So no soapbox will be dragged along a well rutted track for us to yell at you. You know best. You tell us everyday. It's your body. Your mind. Your planet. This is our bread.
It became damn important to us. Bread kept us sane when we couldn't afford heating, when the house leaked heat at every nook and cranny. It filled our bellies as we waited for the first summer crops, we came to it not through some sort of moral superiority, not because of some sort of hippy, dippy need to connect to the earth - we don't grow wheat, we don't grow barley and we don't have a windmill in our back garden grinding our daily flour - we came to making bread because we couldn't afford to go to the supermarket more than once a month. Now, supermarket bread is cheap, ridiculously cheap and it's full of ingredients that keep it white and fresh through a nuclear winter. Watch it, we're stepping on that soapbox, we can hear the wood creak. We'll step off. This is our bread.
It's damn important to us as it made us appreciate what we had, the work we put into kneading it, watching it rise, knocking it back and baking it for eating, bartering and swapping with. It was bread that was unique to us and through it we learnt the need to slow down. Bread is a slow affair, it keeps you at home and stops you from window shopping or impulse buying in a supermarket. This bread saved us money, gave us time that we'd lost to pointless wandering around of supermarkets, out of town shopping centres and high streets that comprised more of pound shops and tanning shops than it did of any local identity. We could give it to family and friends, make them happy, make them smile. We can hear the soapbox straining beneath our muddy bare feet. This is our damn bread.
We bake it in the oven, we cook it in a frying pan and we give it to you with love, with care, with the simple idea that we learnt a skill that many of us don't know, don't want to know, don't care to know, we give it to you in the hope that you will try it. That you will bake a bad loaf once in awhile, that one day you will bake a damn fine loaf and realise that the time you put in was paid back to you a million fold. We know the soapbox is creaking, that we are waggling in the wind, we know this but this is our bloody bread and it means more to us than you or any slick advertising campaign: any two for one deal, any 50% off, any seed infused, animal striped gimmick you want to throw our way. This is our bread, it saved us from a life of apathy, of never questioning, of accepting the status quo.
No damn supermarket loaf will do that for you. Set yourself free, bake some bread.