Young at Heart: 15-grain bread anyone? Anyone?

As a kid I loved rye bread. Still do.

One grain. One loaf that lasted for two weeks at the back of the bread box. You hardly ever knew when it got stale.

Later came 3-grain bread. Rye, a few oats, a bit of whole wheat.

Healthier? Who knows. Maybe it just looked and sounded healthier.


["Yup, I could live on toast and tea."]

But I didn’t like it as much. Stuff stuck in my teeth. Occasionally I’d bite down on a burnt oat or a whole wheat and feel a bitter shock wave from a cracked molar or loose filling all the way to the tips of my toe nails.

After living through a brief, safe, Bambi white bread phase, my wife set me back on a healthier course by supplying me with a steady diet of 7-grain bread (it was all the rage). Seven ways to lose a filling, I thought.

I often felt eating toast was akin to throwing a handful of gravel into my mouth. Bite down hard, eh. You’ll get used to it.

Now it’s 12-grain bread several days per week. Bambi is dead to me. And I have a greater fear of burnt toast than riding my Virago the wrong way on the 401. With what’s left in the bag after eating the last crust you could feed a billy goat - if he’d have it.

In 35 - 40 years, if all goes as planned, I’ll be living the high life in a retirement home staffed with young ones on roller skates who will answer to my every beck and call.

I’ll ring a small bell every morning.

“Want some breakfast today, Gordie? Or should I call you Gorgeous George?”

“Yes, please - to both. A bit of toast. A cup of tea,” I’ll say. “And glide a little closer.”

“We’ve got some fresh 15-grain bread in the larder. Happy with that?”

“Sure, I’ve got one tooth left. Let’s give it a go,” I’ll say.

See, by that time I’ll be used to how to deal with the darn stuff.

Don’t chew. Just swallow.

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