We've learned to swallow juice from a pouch, wine from a box, and even yogurt from a bag, but is there really any reason to get our bread from a can?
Brown Bread -- we tried the raisin variety -- undoubtedly can outlast the shelf life of any loaf sheathed in nothing more than a thin plastic veil, but would it taste the same? Perhaps even better? Is it so texturally rich that we'd be willing to sacrifice a trip to the bakery where the occasional free cookie sample can still be had? Inquiring minds had to know, so we pried open the can -- both ends, mind you, since that's what the directions suggested -- and took a gander.
Psssht went the top as we pierced it with the can opener. Then, once the top section was removed, we glanced and found a dark-brown dome dotted with raisins. Our hearts were filled with hope. Why, this was nothing more than a small portion of carb-filled goodness trapped in a cylindrical container! Yeah, it smells like solid molasses, but it sure looks like bread: spongy and porous.
The other end, however, held no such promise; it had cemented itself to the bottom of the can and held on for dear life as we removed the lid. Now assured that there was practically no way to extract the entire "loaf" intact, we read the second set of directions: "If necessary, gently push loaf out one end with a spoon." Ha! It couldn't be accomplished "gently," nor with the use of a spoon. That is, unless one used said spoon to scoop it out.
So out it plopped in a series of hunks. Sadly, it tasted like a too-moist carrot raisin bran muffin and was in no condition to meet any of the suggested serving recommendations B&M had for us, including topping it with flavored cheese spreads and luncheon meat. [Let's consider that a blessing, shall we?]
Who should eat this, you ask? People too effing lazy to bake, the 85 folks from Maine who are members of its Facebook fan page
, and those of us who just flat-out don't care what our food looks, tastes, or smells like.