Pane Rustica

By Lynn Maddalena Menna

Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts!

~James Beard

Bread rules my life. Personally, I can take it or leave it, but for my husband, Prospero, it is truly the staff of life. Therefore, each day begins with procuring the perfect loaf for his meals.

Now, I did not set Prospero on this path; I'm simply an enabler. His love of bread -- good bread -- began back in a small town in the region of Apulia, Italy. His mother, in an effort to feed seven children on limited funds, created two large rounds of pane rustica -- rustic bread -- that she then took to il forno, or the local ovens, to bake in a wood-burning brick oven. This she did every other day, supplying her family with crusty bread that became the staple food at mealtime.

Prospero often tells me stories of how he satisfied a sweet tooth as a child. "I had to sneak the sugar," he would begin, "and I'd sprinkle a little on a piece of bread. But I was afraid that the wind might blow it off, so first I'd spread a little olive oil on the bread to make the sugar stick. Then I'd run out of the house so I wouldn't get caught." If he had enough lire to buy a small square of chocolate he would let it melt and spread it carefully over a slice of bread, letting it ooze into the deep yeasty tunnels.

After I met my husband, I would enjoy this homemade bread with meals, but it was never more special than when we dropped in to visit his mother for a quick lunch. During the warm summer months, Mamma Lucia would pick ripe red tomatoes and cool green leaves of basil and make a salad slick with olive oil that she would toss over chunks of rustic bread soaked with water -- panzanella. On cold days she would make steaming bowls of white beans garnished with dollops of green olive oil -- smuggled into the country -- and diced garlic. We would scoop up the beans and sop up the broth with her fresh baked bread. It was a feast.

Then Prospero decided to marry me, a third generation Italian-American raised on Wonder Bread, and the baking stopped. Fortunately, we lived in an Italian section of the city and I was able to buy some excellent bread from any number of Italian bakeries in the neighborhood. Eventually we moved to the suburbs and the loaves of supermarket "Italian" bread didn't measure up. So I had to search the stores and by trial and error learn where I could go to buy bread with the correct taste and texture. None were as good as my mother-in-law's bread, but they would have to do.

Bread continues to present a challenge. If Prospero happens to be home for lunch I have to buy fresh sub rolls to make a panino with Italian cold cuts. Bologna on sliced bread simply won't cut it. And his royal highness, the Italian prince, loves a nice grilled American burger but -- you guessed it -- it has to be on a crusty hard roll. Packaged soft buns will not do. There's no getting around it; meals require a daily trip to the market.

The only time I begin to panic is when there's snow in the forecast. How will I get to the store? And what if all the bread is gone? Luckily I found a good quality take and bake loaf and I stock my freezer just in case. There's also the extra bonus of the scent of baking bread wafting through the air. But shopping for bread during snowstorms is not only difficult, it can be downright dangerous.

"Where did you get that bread?" demanded a woman pointing to my cart one snowy morning.

"Over in the bakery department," I confessed with a gulp. "But it's the last one." I'm not sure why, but I was actually afraid. What if she snatched it from my cart while I was sifting through the escarole?

About now you may be wondering why I don't simply break him of this habit. It's because, in some small way, I feel like buying fresh bread each day is the way I show Prospero how much I love him and how special he is to me. It's also my way to show respect for who he is and where he comes from. By making his traditions mine, we truly bonded as a married couple.

There is a bright side to all of this. As long as Prospero has good bread and a nice bottle of wine, dinner can be as simple as a good imported cheese, some prosciutto or sopresata, and olives, or "picky stuff" as my husband likes to call it. He's not fussy in that department. All that really matters is that bread and wine are on the table.

Bread and wine on the table... now where have I heard that before? Next he's going to tell me he has to eat it -- it's his religion.

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