The Bread Story

I’m lucky—both my parents are still alive, mobile, and mostly sane. They live in another country, so I don’t get to visit them as often as I’d like. But when I do, I notice something... they're changing. Not in looks—though yes, there’s even more shrinking and louder TV volume—but in behaviour.

And for an aspiring comedian (or just someone who laughs to stay sane), these visits are goldmines of material.

Take my dad.

Every single day, there’s a family-wide emergency briefing: Do we have enough white linseed bread? How many slices are left? How long will it last? Who's buying more?

Now, please note: the bakery that sells this sacred linseed bread is a three-minute walk from their house and open basically all the time.

Still, the stress is real. One night, I dared to say I could pick up the bread next day as I have to go shopping anyway. The night, before I was asked three times if I was sure. The next morning? Four more times. Yes, I counted.

Then came the Great Bread War.

My parents were unwell, so my aunt and uncle kindly stepped in. My uncle drove across town with a fresh loaf of what he thought was the best white bread in the city. It was not The Linseed Bread.

My dad—normally the gentlest human—was offended. My uncle, feeling unappreciated, got even more offended. And voilà: a full-blown Cold War broke out.

Yesterday, when we visited them, my uncle refused to sit at the table with us what was strange. He sat across the room, “talking on the phone” for two hours straight. Suspicious, I started asking questions. And that’s how I uncovered the scandal now known in our family as...

The Bread Story.