Who am I? What is the duty of my dough? I find myself waking from my recent slumbers in despair, crust shaking with questions. Never before in the span of my existence has the purpose of my place and service felt uncertain. All my years, I have clearly understood my position at the table of life, never questioning the meaning behind my presence or price. Now, however, with a simple grain of new information, I find that my identity requires second thought.

For as far into my ancestry as my yeasty consciousness can gaze, my kind — Table Bread — have identified as humble servants. Presented at time of arrival to a reservation, we greet those who sit to dine with an honor elevated from earthly cost. We live to commence an evening of nutrition and nourishment, serving as an introduction to a meal like a dinner drum roll. I feel the flour of generations before me nod in approval as I arrive in my basket to greet a table of empty stomachs, as free as a smile. My freedom is neither an inherited pleasure nor purpose, but more so a noble privilege. I serve the realm of diners and dinners with breaded bravery. I may proof before I bake, but I rise to excellence when I am bellied and buttered.

I’ve loved my life as a kneaded knight — bequeathed even to those with a medical aversion to my dough DNA. My bounty dawns on every guest like a summer sunrise, and in my joyous delight, I never thought my ranking in the feudal food system required alteration. I am Table Bread: gauntleted with giving . . . Or so I thought. 

Hear my sorry cry, as it seems my internal oven light has shattered in the face of a newly descended truth. I shiver underneath the cloth sheets of my basket at the horror of an impending reality. 

Recently, I have heard whispers of a new cavalry of my kind: an alternative class of Table Bread, one neither warmly offered at each table nor served freely. I have caught wind of a kind of bread that diners must purchase to enjoy: A Table Bread that requires money and mention. 

Table Bread at a purchase price? What’s next, paying for a fork? Asking the cost of kindness? Ordering the bathroom?

‍At first, I prayed for the new truth to be a lie. Never in our existence has one paid for our service, and yet, some of us now cost twelve? We’ve taken pride in our unpaid fealty since the beginning of dining, itself. To price us is to strip us of our purpose, to relinquish our qualitative value, to bring the entire meaning of dinner into open forum debate. 

Against all odds, I am still free. My restaurant realm remains one that honors tradition, culture, and class. My superiors have yet to stoop to levels where grains bear price tags. Still, the impending threat of monetization rattles my crust and crumb. Should I have a numerical price or should I remain unshackled to the confines of capital dough? 

The introduction of a monetary stamp of worth scoring a selection of loaves has whipped me into an existential crisis. Not only does this new concept of paid-for Table Bread prompt a reevaluation of identity, but it drives a division between an already sliced community. No longer is “Bread and Butter” a unified army of rolls dedicated to welcoming restaurant-goers. Now, Bread is broken, crumbling across a foreign and feared terrain. Those of us who remain free don’t understand which sector of service most closely aligns with our intended legacy. Which is breader: offered freely or ordered off the menu? 

In a world unknown, I find myself begging current diners for just one thing: remember me. Regardless of whether I awake tomorrow with a place on the menu and numbers next to my title, remember who I was and will always be in my heart. I am breaded to be free, to be swallowed for the simple cost of enjoyment. No matter what the future holds for Table Bread everywhere, remember us not for the heaviness of our cost, but for the humility in our crust. With butter and oil allied in our ranks, we face the future with floured fight.

May my oil-soaked crest serve as a stamp of approval and appreciation.

Sincerely baked, 






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