Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 29
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Pass the Bread Basket: This Is
How She Stays Full
Haley Sherif
“Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we
forgive those who trespass against us.”
The chair next to me scrapes against the 昀氀oor in not an
unpleasant way, more just in the way that cues me to stand up
and stretch my legs. Another meeting has come and gone and
I feel better about humanity as a whole, but still not sure if I
buy into this. This being a 12-step meeting in a very well known
part of New York–you can hear the hustle and bustle of the city
that never sleeps right outside the door, it’s humid and dank in
this, well, I wouldn’t call it a basement, but it gives o昀昀 the same
vibes–the 昀氀oor slopes like even the building isn’t sure of where
it stands. Someone congratulates me. I nod, mumble, “thank
you,” and try to look for my sponsor. This is an AA meeting and
truth be told, I’m not sure if I’m a drunk or just a girl in her young
twenties infatuated and disappointed in turn by a life that feels
very much out of her control. I do know I’m hungry, though.
New York City is renowned for its restaurants and the ability to get food no matter what time of day. Hungering for a very
speci昀椀c soup dumpling? Easy! Need to itch that BBQ scratch?
Done! Craving freshly made bread? De昀椀nitely don’t check
UberEats, but my mother’s counter instead.
Bread. It’s been a 昀椀xation of mine since I was a little girl–an
undoing, a way to feel full, a way to soak up the olive oil leftover
from dinner on a plate or a way to start the meal. Bread baskets are severely underrated. My favorite part of lunch with my
mother was the bread basket–the variety of breads that were
warm to the touch, delicious with butter, ultimately sanctimonious to all of the other breads. Skip the seeds, you wanted the
Fiction
warm pretzel roll or the focaccia, better yet the hot gooey sourdough that melted on my tongue – the same tongue that would
昀椀nd the insides of so many women – their lips, bodies, tattoos
dancing across mine.
My brother, like 99% of the world during COVID, learned
to make bread. I have to tell you, when you’ve eaten fresh bread,
you can’t go back. It’s a religious experience, one that leaves you
hungering for your next 昀椀x.
I haven’t always had Our Father memorized, but spend
enough time in “the rooms” and you’ll be able to produce at least
a handful of semi-cheesy yet reassuring slogans as well as the
two prayers most meetings begin and end with. I didn’t grow-up
religious, but found prayer the 昀椀rst time I found myself on my
knees on a cold bathroom 昀氀oor surrounded by nothing but
fresh tears and the echo of my mother’s words, “you’ll always
be hungry.”
Growing-up, I was fat 昀椀rst. I mean, I wasn’t overweight, but
I managed to carry my weight in the speci昀椀c way that makes
a hormonal teenager (what an oxymoron) feel fat. I got boobs
before any of the other plaid-skirted girls in my class, I grew
taller (thanks dad), then most of the boys I knew other than my
brothers who also seemed to favor the giant genes. All of the
boys who liked all of the girls were named some version of Max
or Matt or Dylan or Colin as if the names of boys ran out at the
M’s and there wasn’t room for any of the other letters. In college, I’d meet an Xander and think, “昀椀nally made it to the end of
the alphabet” before redirecting my attention to our old, very
white professor, contemplating another very drunk, very white,
very dead writer.
I never felt full as a kid. I can’t actually remember a time
where I wasn’t plotting my next meal as I ate, with the energy of
a mother bird shoving food down the throat of its young. Girls
are supposed to be soft, thin, lithe, demure (a word now associated most closely with…everything).
The closest I ever got to feeling full was in the middle of
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