I always eat the elbows first, even though I was told it’s impolite to eat the elbows first.  [I was also told it’s impolite to eat with my elbows [the ones attached to my body] above my head, but sometimes I do that too.]

It’s impolite because the elbows hold it all together.  They are the bookends to a loaf of bread, and without them, the loaf falls apart.  Like an accordion without a strap, it flops out on the table, scattering crumbs like a swarm of bumble bees over a watermelon flavored Jolly Rancher sitting in a puddle of freshly spilled Zima.

But it’s not all impoliteness and doom and gloom.  When a loaf of bread falls apart, as the slices fan out in a spontaneous fashion, a noise is made.  It is a soft, beautiful noise.  Like the gentle plop of a balloon bouncing along the litter ridden ground at a state fair in 1987 or the silent thud of a feather that falls from a waterfall at an Alaskan national park or the light step of a Native American as he runs through the forest hunting a deer in the early hours of a chilly October morning with nothing but a crudely made knife with which to kill and a loin cloth covering his bits.

It is a noise unlike any other, and is barely audible and easily missed, and it is the reason I always eat the elbows first.

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