Breadstick, oh breadstick
Can I compare thee to a miracle worker?
Before, I only knew you as that restaurant condiment that made me bloated and drink too much wine before my food arrived
But now I realise that I underestimated your greatness
You are the car snack that means the difference between a torturous commute of whinging and a pleasant one filled with chats and pleasantries
You are the life saver that takes the edge off a toddler hunger while I will the dinner to cook faster
You are the old reliable when the snacks of kings – toast, pitta, bagel, yoghurt, banana, apple, waffles, fish fingers and brioche – have been rejected
You are, when all else is lost in the middle of a tantrum of all tantrums, the antedote suggested and sought out by the little man himself when I have forgotten all about you.
You are made of olive oil
You are cheap and you stack well in the cupboard
You are humble in your simplicity, but that simplicity beguiles your genius
You are awesome
We heart you