“Dude, it’s open!”
I drew in a breath, steeling myself for whatever was behind the door. I had conversed with numerous offbeat personalities—from musicians to professional wrestlers—yet neither experience nor research could prepare me for what would be my most unusual subject. Sure, I knew that Bread Head Bakery’s 4.20 loaves were delectable, but how does one interview a loaf of bread?
I entered the house. I was about to find out.
“Duuuuude!” A hefty loaf crusted in fresh rosemary and basil greeted me from his perch on a sofa. “Grab a chair!”
Plastic bread bags littered the floor. Thyme spilled across the coffee table. This had to be my subject, Herbed 4.20 Loaf.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. 4.20,” I responded.
The loaf gazed at me and offered a lazy smile. “Call me Herbed.”
“Hey, man,” A darkly tanned loaf seated next to Herbed poked his companion. “Where’re your manners?”
Herbed grinned. “This handsome loaf is my homie, High Rye.”
High Rye gave me a nod. “’Sup?” he asked.
I eased onto a stool. It was time to unearth Herbed’s story, beginning with the obvious question. “Why are you called a 4.20 loaf?”
“Dude!” Herbed exclaimed rapturously. “I’m two pounds of yeasty goodness for only $4.20! I’m a cheap date!”
“What makes you so delicious?” I inquired.
“That’s easy!” the loaf enthused. “I’m made from the finest, all natural ingredients—none of that artificial junk—I’m versatile—”
“Plain Jane makes awesome grilled cheese and French Toast,” High Rye interrupted. “And you should see her baker’s rack!”
“Dude!” Herbed jostled his friend in what I assume was a shoulder. “That’s my sister! Not cool!”
My curiosity was piqued. “Do you have a large family?”
Herbed rolled his eyes. “Huge. My father, the Bread Man, is always baking new members of the 4.20 clan. There’s my peacenik brother, Olive Branch—he’s loaded with sliced black olives and basil—and my uncle, Crusty Italian—”
“Are you dill weeds ever gonna clean this place up?!” a voice roared. A furious golden loaf emerged from the kitchen. “You’re to be on the dinner table tonight! If this room ain’t picked up in ten minutes, you’re going in the freezer! Capisce?” With a parting glare to his nephew, Crusty Italian wobbled out of the room.
High Rye was nonplussed. A large portion of his chest appeared to be missing. “Man,” he breathed through a mouthful of himself, “I’ve got the munchies.”
“Me, too,” Herbed agreed, chewing on a hunk of his shoulder.
“I just ate a caraway seed.”
“They’re the best part!”
My mouth watered. The aroma of freshly baked bread was irresistible. Hungrily, I grabbed a hunk of Herbed in one hand; High Rye in the other.
“Spread butter on me,” High Rye suggested.
“Dunk me in pesto sauce!” Herbed chimed in.
I was possessed. Again and again, I popped chunks of bread into my mouth, and it wasn’t long before Herbed and High Rye’s chants of “Eat me!” were silenced.
The kitchen door opened. “What the….” Crusty Italian faltered, spying the crumbs upon my lap. His eyes met mine, and I smiled.
Herbed was right. He had told me he was delicious. So was his uncle.
