Say It Ain't Dough

I am having an affair with a ravishing Italian and he is delicious in every way.  Each time I pass him just casually laying there beckoning me with his crisp exterior I must stop and take a nibble.  Or two.  Honestly I cannot help myself.  Just a whiff of his sweet toasty aroma sends me into sensory overload and I must have him ... now. 

My lover and I met on a rainy day in the bakery section of the new Food Lion in town while I was trolling the aisles for something to catch my eye.  He was nestled under the soft glowing lights amongst many others but I only wanted him.  Our connection was instant and the moment the attendant lifted him up and over to my basket I knew we were meant for each other and would be together if only for one blissful day and night.  Sneaking him into my home and finding a good hiding place is relatively easy, however waiting until everyone is asleep so we can be alone is pure torture.  As the minutes tick away at a snail's pace I anxiously await for my husband's eyes to close.  The moment I hear the slightest snore I pounce into the kitchen like a cheetah ninja warrior and whip out the Extra Virgin (how ironic) Olive Oil faster than you can say Rachel Ray.  With my trusty cracked pepper mill and evoo I smother the closest platter with my love elixir, pour myself a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, hoist him onto the countertop to dip and devour every last bite. 

I am the Black Widow of bread and there isn't a slab of dough that is safe while I am around.  Thank goodness I am married because there isn't another man alive that would consider having me for a wife once he saw the bread basket carnage I leave behind.  Whether it be the richest sourdough or crouton-like stale heel still floating around the house, I will dip or slather whatever is handy and will eat it.  No questions asked.  Get between me and some garlic knots and you may just lose a digit or two.  Now the Jews can keep their rye, but you may drop me off at the Macaroni Grill anytime where baskets of heavenly rosemary goodness await. 

Why o why Lord could I not have been born with the gift of vegetable addiction?  Seeing a woman eat a lush green salad is sexy; hankering down on some biscuits and gravy is not.  It's a sickness I tell you.  How could I possibly be held responsible for all the extra baggage (in my ass) that my love for Italian loafs brings to my once svelte frame?  Is it my fault that all of MY salads are accompanied by croutons larger than a small dog?  What creepy skinny person would attempt to have a bowl of pinto beans without a hunk of iron skillet cornbread doused in heart attack inducing butter? 

You can keep your fancy smancy Mediterranean Orzo Salad with Feta Vinaigrette but please pass the leftover pizza crusts to me.  Quickly.