This was Friendship Bread before the baking, a mysterious mixture that, according to reliable sources, was stewed up in a large batch pre-Confederation and passed down from one generation to the next in a grand tradition that I am beginning to suspect is actually a pyramid scheme.
As far as I’ve been able to determine through dogged research, recipients of the mixture are sworn to not only bake the bread, but also pass along any remaining mixture to friends in a perpetual gifting of batter that may or may not lead to anxiety, indigestion, stomach cramps, and thoughts of revenge.
(Consult your doctor for details.)
Earlier in the week I’d marveled at the deliciousness of the cake-like treat that a colleague I’ll call Marlene had baked and set out on a table for all in the office to enjoy.
“This is awesome,” I declared, though because my mouth was crowded with Friendship Bread, it came out sounding like, “his if awfum.”
Crumbs spilled from the corners of my mouth and littered the table.
“His is motally malicious,” I added with a smile.
Marlene noted my enthusiasm and, a week later, arrived at my desk with the bag and its liquid contents.
“You can make your own Friendship Bread now,” she said.
Along with the mix was a recipe, which stated in what I believe was a legally binding agreement, that any remaining mix was to be passed on to friends along with the instructions.
“It’s like paying it forward,” Marlene added brightly.
I scanned the recipe, which involved multiple steps and required that the mixture receive my daily attention – a squeeze here, the addition of some flour there, a kindly word of encouragement on overcast days.
At home, I plunked the bag on the counter along with the instruction manual and tried my best to sound enthused about the gift that kept on giving.
My wife, who is eminently practical, knew I was no more likely to follow the Friendship Bread through to the end than I was to jump the Grand Canyon on a tricycle.
Soon we were struggling with the deeply moral question of what to do with the sloshing bag that now sat on top of the refrigerator.
“We could flush it down the toilet, then say I forgot it in the back of the car and it went bad,” I suggested. “Marlene might believe that.”
The reasoning was sound, though both of us harboured concerns that a pox would be cast on our house by members of the International Fraternity of Friendship Bread, which may or may not be connected to the infamous Skull and Bones society.
The longer the mixture sat unattended, the more uneasy we grew, knowing this generous gift was wasting away, ignored and uncared for.
(Was it my imagination, or did the mixture actually squeal when we sent it swirling toward the city’s sewage treatment plant?)
I was about to fess up at work the following week, but stopped short when, to my great relief, I heard Marlene swearing a blue streak expressing great frustration.
She could no longer shoulder the burden of the fiendish Friendship Bread and was severing all ties to her remaining mixture.
“If I ever see another batch of that (expletive) stuff, I’m going to totally (expletive) lose it on someone,” she said, or something to that effect.
I smiled with relief and told her the shameful truth, that her generous gift was now swimming with the fish, and that she shouldn’t feel the least bit guilty about ending the Vicious Cycle of Bread.
After all, that’s what friends are for.
fmatys@simcoe.com
