Many is the evening I've pulled off a hunk of bread, doused it in olive oil, and called it a dinner.
Many is the morning I've sliced into a fresh, hot loaf, doused it in honey, and called it a breakfast.
Bread is a splendid creation--perhaps even a miraculous one. I used to bake my own bread, (and throw my own pots, too) and will again someday, I'm sure. Until then, I'm enjoying loaves studded with figs, or olives, or fennel...or plain old cracked wheat. Calories be damned.
A recent visit to an old grist mill nearby made me wonder how anyone every thought to grind grain in the first place, much less leaven it and bake it. The things we cook up. People are infinitely clever. And the simplest pleasures are enduringly satisfying.