In another year I'll be thirty years old and I'd like to think that in that time I've come to know a few truths about myself. One of those truths is this:
I love bread.
Be it a proper English Muffin or honey-sweetened dinner roll or seasoned garlic toast or even the infantryman of the bread army, the Saltine cracker, I almost savor them more than the main entree that they typically accompany.
Maybe I can weather this anti-Atkins predilection because I only have 160 pounds stretched over a 6'1" frame; in that case, I officially label my body's metabolism in pyschobabble terms as my co-culprit enabler.