Ammi Midstokke: The bread dealer

It was a dark street on a dark night and a dark car had parked in the convenient shadows between distant streetlights. The rush of the day had been swallowed by the hush of night, which itself was saturated by the low haze of long nights and short days. Even the air smelled of sleep, and perhaps something a little more sour – maybe the bitterness of a people who haven’t seen the sun in two months.

A woman emerged in the amber light, hands in her pockets, eyes toward her feet. She kicked the dirt in an aimless pastime of sorts. A car drove by perceptibly slow, scanning. Across the street, someone stood staring, looking for cars that were not coming.

When the man emerged from the black Subaru Forester, we surrounded him slowly, like Patagonia-clad zombies. Silently, imperceptibly, we manifested out of the darkness with hope and anticipation. When we were nearly upon him, he opened the trunk to reveal neatly organized brown paper bags. Our attack paused.

Stapled shut at the top over a neat fold, hand stamped with a crescent moon, names scribbled with a ball point, the bags held our promise, smelled of the kind of satisfaction only few things offer.

We surrounded him with receipts visible on the phones in our outstretched hands.

“Roasted Garlic Boulé?” he asked.

“I got a focaccia, too,” I said, meekly, in case he was easy to anger. I’d leave with just one loaf if I had to.

“You Amy with a Y or an I?” he asked.

A woman stepped out from behind a tree. She looked tall, strong and ready to fight me to the death for her bread order. Apparently, she is Amy with a Y, and she’s not leaving until she gets all three loaves, and don’t forget that rosemary batard. I was sure I could clock her with my boulé while scooping an armload of orders with my free arm and escaping into the night, cackling hysterically. But there was a tall German with a Tacoma blocking my way.

As we waited there in the dark, more people appeared on the corner with the same hunger in their eyes. I couldn’t tell if we were straight out of a Dickens book or a tragic documentary about addiction. But I knew we were all there for the same fix – bread. Not just any bread. It was gluten-free sourdough we were after. The good stuff for your typical celiac Diseased person or wheat-cursed gastrointestinal tract.

A sourdough addict knows another by sight and the perceptible waft of fermentation. We look like other people but we probably CrossFit or have fundamentalist backgrounds or buy 2-pound Amish butter rolls. We tend to measure our athletic output in Slices-of-Toasted-Bread-and-Butter-Burned. We wander listlessly through the hopeless terrain of farmer’s markets and bakeries knowing we will leave hungry or with a dissatisfying bunch of kale. We’ll act pleased with our organic vegetable selection and the goat cheese that cost a day’s work.

We’re faking it. We’ve seen too many hosts and hostesses at dinner parties serve us rice crackers with the look of compassionate accommodation knowing we’ll have to ooh and aah at dry goods with a half life of 800 years, while consuming inordinate amounts of cheese so we can swallow. If you’ve ever wondered why your celiac friends aren’t thinner, that’s the answer. And because eggnog is gluten-free.

As a celiac, I measure time in two eras. First, the Corn and Rice Age, which lasted approximately from the mid-1990s into the first 10 years of the century. All gluten-free alternatives were served with a side of pity and a gallon of milk to wash the cement dust out of your mouth when you were done pretending to enjoy it. There was a brief intermission when all grains were demonic, thanks to the Paleo trend which I duly joined like any eager cult member who finally felt seen and heard. Honestly, anyone who says that I can combine coffee and butter is a guru I’m willing to follow.

Then came the Resurrection of Bread. Someone learned that tapioca and xantham gum might help “decardboardify” our food. I suspect a few bakers discovered they were celiac and started a secret society of scientific experimentation with grains. I don’t know precisely when it happened, but it’s considered a holy day among my kind: Someone figured out how to keep a brown-rice flour sourdough starter alive. It is possible all gluten-free sourdoughs around the world are now the offspring of that one starter.

Also, it might involve witchcraft. I think that part gets baked out, like the wine in a red velvet cake. I don’t ask questions, I just place my order online, show up to the poorly lit parking lot, and wait for a stranger to start handing out paper bags.

I can’t say if we’re more pleased about the bread itself or the sense of normalcy it has restored for us, aside from the dark alley delivery method reminiscent of a drug deal.

So far, no one has pulled any weapons. All we have is bread and butter knives anyway, and we’re too afraid to lose privileges to make any trouble. We take our loaves with a nod of humble gratitude, then scurry back to our cars where we carefully unroll the tops, shove our head into the bag, and take a deep, satisfying breath.

Then we promise ourselves we’ll make this loaf last until the next week.

It never does.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com