In an imperfectly perfect world we all have loaves of Madison sourdough in the house at all times. A small, serrated saw is attached to the bread board with a string and each time we pass by we saw off a slab, leaving the knife to dangle. The butter is not stick-shaped and it is at room temperature – liquid in the summer, petrified in the winter – there for spreading to opacity on the slab.
Madison Sourdough is there for the taking. Taking it in IN. Or taking it OUT. Or both, as we did. Sandwiches and soup IN, bread enough to feed a circus OUT.
I did have a remarkably memorable sandwich. As much as I eat, think and talk about sandwiches, I don’t always remember them. More of a NOTED and NEXT mentality. However. How how how did they think of it? Ever so wonderful it was. Butternut squash slices, sweet and dense and tenderly sturdy, between bread. Brilliant. Add onions, so much sugar in them, their sweet side waiting shyly to be revealed. Add goat cheese. Friskiness captured but not contained.
As is Madison. Frisky. And ample. Ample enough to feed the spirit of a circus. On bread.