The Bum

baked bread
Photo by Mariana Kurnyk on

My father has slapped my hand for trying to take the end piece of the bakery bread. The Bum. The undisputed, very best part. If you let him help you by cutting the loaf of bread for dinner, he will take the bum before it even makes it into the bread basket to go on the dinner table. He thinks he’s got the edge now because he no longer relinquishes the bum to my (now deceased) Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack would touch every piece of bread in the basket to unbury the bum. And we all just enabled it. But now, my dad wants them. Problem is, my son also wants them.

I mean, I don’t *need* them. Wheat is not my friend, so if I’m going to eat bread, I try to make sure it’s really great bread. Like, yaknow, the bum. Weird thing is that while we’re always inches away from fisticuffs over the bakery bum, no one in my house will eat the bum on the commercial bread, so King Louie gets it. He’s pretty happy with the arrangement, gotta tell ya. Sometimes, I sweeten the deal with some peanut butter.

He’s not very dignified when he’s eating peanut butter and bread bum.
But it’s good entertainment for me.
Unless he drops it on the carpet.
But I digress.

Last week, one of my work days consisted of a team push to clear a backlog of writing tasks, like a bugbash, but different. I decided that we should stop at Norris Bakery on the way. My Gentleman Associate and his coworkers know the joy of Norris, as do mine, so treats from Norris would be a good way to ease the burden of Fixed Issues Backlog Blitz.

On a whim, I also bought an egg salad sammy. Because egg salad is a delightful comfort food, and a bit of protein is a good thing in the morning, amirite? The girl behind the counter tried to convince me to get a newly made sammy instead of the ones made last night. I said yesterday’s effort was fine. We paid for our treats and hi-ho-hi-ho, off to work.

Then, the gift: My sammy was made with the bum of the bread. The delicious, delicious Norris Bakery bread, and no one trying to out-maneuver me to get the bum.

By the end of the day, the Knowledge team (that’s our legit team name. I kind of love that) chatted and laughed and worked through 75 issues. I’m not saying that a day that starts with some unexpected bum makes your day delightfully more bearable. I’m just sayin’.

3 thoughts on “The Bum

  1. My Mum always called the end of the bread the heel (“bum” was a bad word in our house and I wasn’t allowed to say it.), and she was always the undisputed recipient of that piece of yeasty goodness. Now that Mum has passed on, I am the inheritor of her legacy. Nevermind that I don’t have to arm wrestle anyone for it, because neither my husband or my kids like it.. That worked out well for me, didn’ t it?


  2. I have personally had my hand slapped at that table by “The Chief” for trying to take the bum then subsequently been slapped in the back of the head by Cuckoolooloo for my inappropriate language protesting the aforementioned hand slap. I love my adopted family.


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