Carbs, for American women at least, have simultaneously been idolized and demonized since the 1990s.
I just moved to France, and though I’ve spent majority of the past year in countries where the consumption of food is vastly different than the Weight Watchers doctrine I was raised in, I am beginning to see bread in a new light. Not like a star kept up on a tree, but rather like the trunk itself. The French people are a few things I’ve noted: proud and slow. The way they treat their food is no different and something I’ve never even considered embodying myself. As an American woman (at 27 I just now feel comfortable calling myself that) I have been taught that less is better. Smaller waists, smaller plates make for a larger life. A life of more opportunity and acceptance. A life I lost my womanhood in, ironically enough.
From the time I can conceive a memory, I’ve dieted. Underweight or overweight, I’ve never pursued health. I’ve pursued shrinking. I still recall the cringe-worthy Aitkens Diet commercials that played on the television in my parent’s room. The P90x workout DVDs stacked in our ottoman and the occasional go-ahead to my brother and I to order a Sprite as a sugary treat when going out on a weekend.
American diet culture has consistently seeped into every crevice of my mind and I didn’t realize how cancerous it was until my grandmother pointed it out to me a few weeks ago:
“Your parents have never not dieted. It’s been this way your whole life.”
Not that it’s their fault or anybody’s fault for that matter. We’ve all been taught to be this way. The world we live in is one of Victoria's Secret models eating hamburgers in bikinis. We remain perceptive to contradicting signals to work and indulge. To have it all. Isn’t that the American dream?
Poilâne is a Boulangerie founded in 1932 by baker Pierre Poilâne. Known for their commitment to the fermentation process and baking with wood fired ovens, their specific process uses natural leaven and the lactic fermentation to create unique, gustatory and nutritional bread.
When you think of France, the typical emblems that come to mind are: kissing, baguettes, red wine, and loads of cheeses you cannot pronounce. Things Americans tend to not indulge in on a daily basis. What an interesting word, right? What’s so evil about it? What makes these pleasurable items so wrong that we give them moral value before consumption? The mere thought of enjoying a piece of flaky, buttery bread has been marked with a scarlet letter in our psyches before we can even consider if we want it or not.
In my attempt to balance my hormones back after not obtaining a period for years, I began to explore the holistic route of female reproductive health. Recovering from anorexia meant re-balancing every part of me. Creating hormonal balance also meant re-balancing my gut. And what better avenue to explore than the art of sourdough making? I learned that fermented bread wasn’t going to make me “fat.” In fact, there are many prebiotic features in sourdough that overall attribute to microbiome balance. Bread contains more than 200 volatile molecules, making it chemically more complex than wine or cheese (helpful to know in the world of French gastronomy). But what if I told you that the way you consume your food matters more than your preconceived notions of what is “good” or “bad” for your body? Your mind? Your soul? That extra glass of wine isn’t going to kill you, just like that pain au chocolat isn’t going to make you unworthy of wearing that skintight dress you have picked out for dinner. The French have mastered the art of kneading and needing. Creating and consuming with timely intention. If you know anything about baking, then you know it is nothing like cooking. I heard Rachel Ray say once she doesn’t measure when she cooks. But a dash here, a splash there, simmering until brown doesn’t cut it in the kitchen of a baker: precise and intentional.
I wonder what would happen if women started treating their bodies more like bread. Loving themselves and their arches with care and respect; not forcing our curves to shrink or grow, but rather listening to them. Feeling them. Caring for them. After all, aren’t bodies temples to our souls?
As a practicer of Christian faith, I’ve learned a thing or two about Daily Bread in my journey of recovery. That the only antidote to shame is gratitude. It’s been speculated that when the God of the universe wanted to reveal himself for the first time in human history,
He gave to the masses: bread.
And when God wanted to remind the human race the big, beautiful love story He was authoring all along across generations,
He gave them: bread.
And later on when the Messiah wanted to communicate the weight of what was about to be seen through torture and unbearable thorns, like his body,
He broke: bread.
So why is it that we deplete ourselves of this substance made of the earth? Similar to the voice of evil twisting : “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.” (Mathhew 4:3) Satan cried, holding an ultimatum in front Jesus’ nose in the dessert. I’ve heard this voice many times behind my own ears. One whispering to betray myself; creating distance between my soul and my body. Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Matthew 4:4) I’d like to add women* to that man.
There are no “ifs” in the Kingdom of God I want to live in. The earth I want to inhibit. The culture I want to invest in. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not on the condition of what I consume or what I look like. Bread is universal. Something we break. We share. We use to nourish ourselves and homes. How is it that a food symbolic of such humility and history could be weaponized against an entire demographic for the sake of vanity? Of fitting into a smuggling mold of rigidity? I will tell you that this year on my excursion to find freedom in food, I’m exploring the rights of the most basic and intricate product this earth and its people have to offer. I’ve grown tired of living in a cultural cage that attempts to convince me I’m not worthy to eat the gracefully crafted by the ancient practice. My body has too. What would it look like to give into the fermentation process rather than fight it? To chew instead of spit? To embrace instead of avoid?
This year I am going to investigate what makes French bread what it is and why it’s worthy of the Décret Pain (1993, stating that traditional baguettes have to be made on the premises where they're sold and can only be made with four ingredients: wheat flour, water, salt and yeast.) What makes the best boulangeries the best? What does it take to create bread that feeds not only our bodies, but our souls?