Unfortunately, the dratted flu that I had spanned two weeks. It started at the end of week 7 and made its merry way into week 8. Therefore, I only made one batch of bread, and gave one loaf to my daughter Shannon. Next week I’ll do better. I’ve promised a loaf to Lee Gilman, who lives up the road and gives me a ride to the Food Pantry each month during the winter. (In spring, summer, and fall, I can bike.) And I expect Shannon will somehow get another loaf. 

At week 8, it seems appropriate to write a little about sharing and selfishness. I started this project as a response—a protest, really—to the extreme selfishness that seems to have hit the United States. We’re the richest country in the world, but somehow we can’t seem to find enough money for universal health care, education, public transportation, and many other things that would be good for both our society and the environment. 

My aim was simple—give at least one loaf of homemade bread a week—and except for the week when I had the flu, I have done that and more. In fact, since January 1, I have given away 15 loaves of bread. 

It has occurred to me that with all this bread giving, readers might come to the conclusion that I’m a regular Lady Bountiful, always ready to share, never selfish, never stingy. But this would be a wrong conclusion. 

Like many people, I have a selfish side as well as a generous side, and at times I have to really struggle with the not-so-giving aspect of my personality. For example, I love See’s Chocolates, which are not available in Maine and would be a special treat even if they were. I got a box for Christmas, and I got a box for Valentine’s Day as well. When I unwrapped that glorious box on Christmas morning, with four chocolate lovers watching, did I want to open the box and pass it around? I did not. Instead, I wanted to tuck it under my other presents and, when nobody was looking, spirit the chocolates into my office, where they would be hidden. 

Fortunately, my conscience nagged me. “For Heaven’s sake!” it said. “You share that box of chocolates. What kind of stingy example would you be setting if you didn’t open the darned thing and pass it around?” 

“Right!” I replied. Silently, of course. I didn’t want my family to think that I’d finally skidded around the bend. 

With only the slightest hesitation, I opened that box of chocolates and passed it around. Then came the second test. 

“Oh, no!” the family protested. “Those are your chocolates. And we know how much you love them.” 

Smiling falsely, I said, “Chocolates are meant to be shared.” 

And shared they were. The family behaved in an exemplary way. They helped themselves to one, and even when I left the box in the living room—rather than sprinting it to my office—they only took a chocolate when I offered them one. 

Lots of lessons here, that’s for sure. Lessons in sharing and lessons in receiving. What I have come to realize about my Let Them Eat Bread Project is this: Not only is it a protest, but it is also terrific spiritual practice to be in the regular habit of giving bread. I expect that generosity, like any other good behavior, can be encouraged, exercised if you will, until it becomes stronger and stronger. Then one day, it has become second nature. At least that is the hope.