It's not a Meal without Bread

It was eight am and I was working at my computer getting light headed. Then I remembered the dinner the night before. I had brought homemade sourdough bread. Our hostess stashed it away while her husband was driving their daughter to a friend's house. When he returned a few minutes later he made us drinks and appetizers. The hostess didn't partake. She had her own bottle of pink champagne that she drank while she hammered the chicken breasts with a spiked metal tool that looked like a Medieval torture device. I watched her roll the exhausted limp breasts in Italian breadcrumbs and then saute them in two sticks of melted butter. I thought of Jaques Pepin whose every move in the kitchen was about love and respect. And butter. The husband made a tray of scoop-shaped corn chips, salsa, and nuts. He made dark and stormy's for my husband and me and one for himself. The hostess was not snacking at all. She stayed at the stove, at the far side of the kitchen where she preferred to be. We were old friends of her husband's and his first wife. When it was time to eat, the hostess set the table with a bowl of lettuce with lemon juice sprinkled on the leaves and the plate of breaded chicken breasts. For dessert she happily brought out Häagen-Dazs ice cream sandwiched between two thick chocolate chip cookies. There was no sign of my bread. The next morning, after all of that butter and sugar, I nearly fainted. It's not a meal without bread.