Bread: The Free World

On a coldsnowyslushyicydesolatedark night, the kind in which old men curse when they walk outside to find their car covered in stubborn snow, my man friend and I ventured to the old Italian district in Northern Boston.

We really had no solid ideals for the evening, simply experience the old Italian District, make an attempt for continual warmth. Our evenings were made, however, when we came upon large garbage bins of bread, baguette-like, though obviously not since we were in the Italian district. Though not warm, the bread was still soft and most likely had been made in the last 24 hours.

We took as many loaves as our arms could carry, but had to leave most of it behind.