Buns of Greatness
There are few things that invite your mind to think of what the future might bring more than the crackling sound of the royalty-free classics song that plays in the holding line of the UK state pension call centre.
Riding on a high after convincing a robot answering machine after 20 minutes of intense questioning that I am in fact the human I am claiming to be and do want to speak to another human rather than visit the future pension website, I can’t help but picture the life of indulgence and sweet nothingness I will lead come 2061. I can see my 68-year-old self settling into a chair at her local café for her second breakfast while everyone else is heading out to work. Taking out her latest library exploits. Jotting down a few thoughts into her notebook. And since we relocated to Andalucía, I also see the mollete Andaluz when I think about my retired self.
The mollete Andaluz is a small, pale bread bun with a soft interior and a fine yet crunchy crust. Believed to date back to the Roman period, it originated in Antequera near Málaga and was first mentioned in a dictionary in 1492. To this day, it is toasted and eaten for breakfast or as an afternoon snack with butter, olive oil and tomato paste or jamón.
Now why oh why is this humble bun part of my retirement vision? Am I going mad after spending too much time in call centre holding lines? Perhaps. But I also see the mollete in my future because I want my retirement to be filled with its fluffiness. Filled with the way butter melts into its porous dough, soaking its insides and creating the perfect contrast to the golden toasted crunch of its crust.
And I see it in my retirement future for what it means. If there’s a mollete in my future, it means that I will have resisted the dictate of healthy avocado fats, showing a carby middle finger to the fetishization of nutritional balance. It means that buddha bowls and poached eggs invading breakfast cafes even in this most remote part of Europe with their filterable sameness will not have conquered all, but reached a peaceful co-existence with older, simpler options. Now that’s what I call balance. Staunchly opposing plasticised physical fixes, it means the mollete’s wheat dome will be the only firm bun left in my life. It means that global trade routes will still be functioning. Spain will be a desert by 2061, so no way I retire here, making my future breakfast ritual a result of solid import-export transactions. It means that we haven’t killed all plants. Because that’s what wheat is after all. Mollete: sustenance, peace, life. Plus, it is soft enough for any denture challenges that may come my way.
Suddenly the phone line jumps to life! A brief exchange.
A mollete better means that when I retire, its mind-boggling-to-a-former-Londoner affordability (the buttered one with a coffee goes for 2.80 at my current local café) will still be a thing. Because anything more than a 3 quid daily treat will be beyond what I will be able to pay for .
Time for second breakfast.