The baker murdered a customer who refused to pay. He bludgeoned him to death with a stale breadloaf.
The body was still cooling on the floor, where anyone could find it. The baker rushed home with the murder weapon in his hand and said, “Children, come quick! We must eat this breadloaf!”
His two sons joined him in the kitchen. It wasn’t unusual for their father to bring food from work, but usually he was very tired and not so animated.
“Eat!” he urged them. “Eat!”
After a few bites, the younger son complained. “It’s stale and hard to chew.”
“So dip it,” his father instructed him.
“In what?” said the older son. “What about wine?”
So the baker filled two mugs with red wine, and the boys happily dipped their crusts. But the breadloaf was large, and the bottle was close to empty, and soon they were out.
“I’m full,” said the first son. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“But you must!” his father insisted.
“It’s still too hard. My jaw hurts.”
So the baker set about making soup. At first, he only intended to boil water, but he knew his boys would complain, so he sautéed onion and garlic and chopped carrot and celery. He added lentils and a bay leaf. In a short time, the kitchen was redolent with aromas.
When the soup was done, they ate. They finished the breadloaf. And after the police had arrested their father (murder weapon or no, there was a dead body in his bakery), and he’d been convicted and hung, the two boys would remember this last meal as a sort of goodbye.
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