The Bread Box that only Grows Mold
By: Brooke Wilder
Tags: Cleaning, Baking, Hoarding, Memories, Creative Writing

The Bread Box that only Grows Mold

There is always a story around inanimate objects. It’s the mother’s ring that was grandmas or your brother’s baseball or your daughter’s flower girl dress or the family Betty Crocker black and red check cookbook or the chipped Christmas bulbs. These ordinary, everyday objects are sponges for memories. They evoke the day grandma prayed over you, the day at the tournament where we all shared cheese fries, the wedding when we left the shoes at the hotel and little feet walked the aisle bare, the banana bread that has been a weekly staple, the bliss of Silent Night.

What happens when we hold onto the objects that do not hold the cherished warmth of life but the cold remnants of disfunction?

I did not know that I had a bread story to tell. I’m a baker, but more of a blueberry muffin than sourdough talent. The protagonist currently sits in my basement, looking at me as I fold laundry or change the cat litter. It is my vintage wood breadbox from childhood that I simply cannot part with; like I’m the bread and it’s the wire tie holding in my fresh-baked goodness. Only, every slice that has ever entered the hinged doorway grows mold. It’s a sad bread story.

Here’s what I know about the history of the said breadbox. It’s my understanding that it was a wedding gift to my now-divorced mom and dad. It sat on the counter of each home we rented throughout my young life. It always has the loaf heels, never a crustless middle, or at least that is how I remember it when I went for a self-made PP&J. It’s likely pine, aged to now look like a whisky barrel by fingers and moves. My mom kept the breadbox in the divorce, not that it was written in the official papers, it was just tossed in a cardboard box marked “kitchen” and onto the next life. The old breadbox made it to the next marriage and the next house and new family which also ended in, you guessed it, divorce papers. The poor breadbox never stood a chance. When my mom combed the house of all the things to take to her new apartment, she left her newfound ex- with the said breadbox. After I finished college, and a million stories and sandwiches in between, I lived with my step-dad once more. I swapped him a breadbox that I got gotten for my wedding for the “family heirloom”. He gladly accepted.

I finally bought my first home and began to see my babies grow and begin to build their own self-made PB&Js. However, there was never bread in the box. There was half an English muffin, a random old bagel, and of course the spouting fuzzy signs of expiration. It came over me in a flush, this is the saddest bread box that ever lived. The breadbox that grows mold. It lacked nurturing in its infancy and now rushes time and leaves you dissatisfied. It takes up counter space in the worst way, the dark secrets of the house kinda way.

So I have hung onto this damn thing into my adult life. There are currently clothes pins stored in it near the washer. I don’t use and it honestly often sours my thoughts looking at it. All these terrible attributes and I still hang on to it. I can purge clothes and food, make-up and toys. When it comes to the memory of the past, I hang onto every stitch. The bread box is not the highlight of good times, but it is a true piece and all I have left of it. There were not a lot of photos or letters from that time, there was barely any bread.

So how does this story end, what is next for said breadbox? Should I sand it down and paint it, disguise it as something new? Grab some wine and make a bonfire in the backyard? Donate it to the salvo; will the next owner have better reviews? For right now, I wanted to write about it. I wanted to tell my breadbox story out loud. I feel lighter. That breadbox has zero power over me or my bread! I am free because the story is free. Inanimate objects have this way within our lives, I won’t deny that. I know I have a soft spot for all the life they truly hold. Fascinating really and yet- it is only in the power we allow it to have. Free yourself from the “stuff” and hold onto the pieces that bring value to the soul. There is my answer!