For one week a year the sole occupant would be an Irish Soda Bread, ready to be slice and devoured, a nod to heritage only partly my own. For the week leading up to March 17th, it would be there, whether homemade or not.
Sometimes potatoes would find their way into the box, but never onions which would leave their smell lingering for weeks. No, only lovely golden potatoes ready to be wrapped in foil and buried under logs in a fire. Under the stars or next to a sunset the potatoes would roast, and yes, maybe char a little on the outside while I would drink tea and feel the air cool on my arms. When enough time had passed a stick was the perfect tool for rolling the potatoes out, then it was onto a plate - hot! hot! hot! from one hand to the next - where the foil would be ripped, the potato split, and a generous pad of butter added to the steaming soft insides. That was all that was needed and they were comforting perfection.
Potatoes were the exception, not the rule, of course... but they were a delicious golden tasting treat, and when we had them, they were found in the breadbox.
Our little kitchen and tiny fridge didn't offer room for much beyond the vegetables we bought from the farmers markets that week, eggs, some tins of tuna, some homemade soup frozen for another day. We didn't spare the room for ice cream or cookies, not boxed birthday confections (all icing and fluffiness). Our treats and special things all belonged in the category of What Could Be Stored in the Breadbox.
Yes, the breadbox was a little impractical, but it was also purposeful. The direction of a day could be changed just by asking, "What is in the breadbox today?"
The Imagined Life is fiction, a world of my own creation, explored through small, everyday things and experiences.
Picture Credit: Joybilee Farm