greatness?
Why, of all his creatures, did He choose this loud, dirty, unkempt,
obnoxious, uncontrollable, megalomaniacal madman to be His personal
bread baker? How was it that this disgrace as an employee, as a citizen,
as a human being—this undocumented, untrained, uneducated and
unwashed mental case who's been employed (for about ten minutes) by
every kitchen in New York—could throw together a little flour and water
and make magic happen?
And I'm talking real magic here, people. I may have wanted Adam dead
a thousand times over. I may have imagined, even planned his demise—
torn apart by rabid dogs, his entrails snapped at by ravenous dachshunds,
chained to a pillory post and flogged with chains and barbed wire before
being drawn and quartered—but his bread and his pizza crust are simply
divine. To see his bread coming out of the oven, to smell it, that deeply
satisfying, spiritually comforting waft of yeasty goodness, to tear into it,
breaking apart that floury, dusty crust and into the ethereally textured
interior . . . to taste it is to experience real genius. His peasant-style
boules are the perfect objects, an arrangement of atoms unimprovable by
God or man, pleasing to all the senses at once. Cezanne would have
wanted to paint them—but might not have considered himself up to the
job.
Adam Real-Last-Name-Unknown may be the enemy of polite society, a
menace to any happy kitchen, a security risk and a potential serial killer,
but the man can bake. He's an idiot-savant with whom God has serious,
frequent and intimate conversations. I just can't imagine what He's
telling him—or whether the message is getting garbled during
transmission.
The crusaders of yore, it is said, used to stop off at the local church or
monastery before heading off to war; where they were allowed to
purchase indulgences. This was sort of like a secured, pre-paid credit