My father hated bread, for some reason. He didn't talk about it, but whenever he made a sandwich I would watch him curse at it, mangle and mold it by brute force into position around the core of the sandwich. He had huge hands and little patience, which I believe was the root cause of the hostility. Sandwich-making for him was a struggle, one that he only really engaged in for the benefit of my sister and I. For himself, he always had a can of soup. He wouldn't speak much during lunch, simply watch us chatter, sip his soup and smile with satisfaction as our teeth tore and devoured his fluffy enemy.