A lifetime ago, I was on a train with a presumptuous Australian teenager who thought her eight months in Tuscany qualified her to speak authoritatively on all things culinary. I also happened to be a presumptuous Australian teenager who thought having Italian nonni made me an expert, so I listened begrudgingly as she described the wonders of Tuscan bread.
I can’t remember her exact words, but it was something along the lines of prosciutto being pretty salty and enlightened Tuscans looking down on the rest of Italy as it shovels heart disease into its mouths, but like I said, I was being pretty salty myself and I may have distorted the memory.
This story followed me all the way to southern Tuscany where I married the son of bakers. I admit, I’d never really thought about the salt content of the bleached slices of carbohydrates that adorned my lunch box every day. And while I’d like to pretend my first experience with Tuscan bread was an epiphany, I can't mince my words. The heavy, doughy slice tasted, and this may shock you, like nothing.