„Biedroneczko leć do nieba, przynieś mi kawałek chleba”
“Little ladybug, fly to heaven, bring me a piece of bread.”
As a child, I whispered this gentle, magical plea to a ladybug whenever I saw one. I counted dots on the red wings to check my luck – seven were the most desired number. If possible, I carefully lifted boża krówka (“God’s little cow”) onto my hand with a blade of grass or a leaf, marveling at the soft tickle of her tiny feet on my palm. I observed her, and when the moment felt right, I raised my hand and blew lightly to encourage her to fly to heaven and bring me a piece of bread.
When I was very little, I truly believed she might return. I imagined her journey and wondered how she would carry the bread. Later, I came to understand that the chant was not meant to be taken literally. The ladybug was a messenger of hope, and the rhyme a quiet lesson in trust: in nature, in kindness, and in the belief that even the smallest beings – as long as they are treated with respect – can help deliver life’s essentials. And what could be more essential than bread?
Bread, the essence of existence — simple, sacred, and nearly universal — is one of the oldest staple foods known to humanity. It requires only three ingredients: flour, water, and salt. Yet when combined with care and patience, they transform, almost magically, into something both nourishing and delicious.
The oldest remains of bread are dated 14,400 BCE and were found in northeastern Jordan. This bread was made from wild cereals such as barley, einkorn, and oats, combined with tubers from plants like club-rush. The ingredients were ground, sieved, and kneaded before being baked, likely on hot stones or directly in the ashes of a fire. It is doubted that this bread was a staple food, as the agricultural revolution was still 4,000 years away.
Around 10,000 BCE, with the rise of agriculture in the Fertile Crescent (modern-day Middle East), making-bread become more widespread. By 3,000 BCE, the Egyptians had developed leavened bread using natural fermentation. In Ancient Greece and Rome bread became central to daily life and was often baked in communal ovens. The Romans even had professional bakers and over 70 varieties of bread.
Over time, nearly every culture around the world has developed its own staple form of bread. It became not only a basic food but also a cultural symbol, often reflecting values such as community, sustenance, tradition, and even spirituality.
In Slavic tradition, bread — often accompanied by salt — is offered to guests as a sign of hospitality and respect. Newly married couples are welcomed with bread and salt to wish them abundance and prosperity — a blessing that they will never go without bread, and that their home will be full of food and happiness.
Sharing bread almost universally represents unity and togetherness. It is central to many rituals, holidays, and communal meals.
Bread appears in countless of proverbs and sayings emphasizing values like hard work, prosperity, wisdom, kindness, caution, generosity, common sense – all carrying positive association.
The word bread can likely be translated into every language, as nearly all cultures have developed their own version of this essential food. However, the term often refers not to a single object but to the concept of bread — as a fundamental element of life. The physical forms vary as widely as the names: chleb (Polish) – bread (English) – pain (French) – خبز (Arabic) – ekmek (Turkish) – 面包 (Mandarin) – mkate (Swahili) – ब्रेड (Hindi).
When I chanted my rhyme to a ladybug, whispering my innocent wish for a piece of bread, I would have expected a piece of rye bread with thick, crunchy crust – preferably crackled – and a light grey-brown crumb, not too dense and not too airy, with a slightly sour aroma. I would have been disappointed to receive a piece of rugbrød, traditional Danish bread – dark brown, dense, moist, chewy, sour and earthy, with a hearty flavor; or naan, traditional leavened flatbread from the Indian subcontinent, despite its soft and pillowy texture.
The taste of bread becomes a part of us — a basic food we grew up with. It cannot be unlearned. We may grow accustomed to other flavors over time and even come to enjoy them, but the bread of our childhood remains the prototype against which all others are measured. It is tradition, culture, heritage, and identity.
When I moved from Poland, I missed the taste of Polish bread so deeply that I began baking my own loaf each week. I follow the steps I learned years ago, watching my grandmother during summer vacations in the countryside.
It all begins with a starter — either saved from the previous loaf or kept alive in a cool place and fed regularly. Just flour and water, yet it works like a spell. When mixed again with fresh flour, water, and salt, it transforms the dough into a living being: rising, expanding, shifting shape.
The final, magical transformation takes place in the glowing oven. The loaves harden, deepen in color, and develop a thick, crunchy crust that conceals a soft, spongy crumb. The best time to eat it is while still warm, with butter melting gently into each slice.
Every week, when I take the starter from the fridge, I think of my grandma and her stone pot holding the magical ingredient, her strong hands kneading the dough without the help of a mixer. When the dough rises, I remember waking up in the morning to find a large bowl tucked under a featherbed with the dough quietly swelling in the warmth. When I feel the heat of the oven, I sense the sun of my childhood summers. As the kitchen slowly fills with the aroma of baking bread, I smell the unforgettable scent of rye stored in grandma’s granary. And when I take the loaf from the oven, I think of the ladybug and silently thank her—and nature—for granting my wish, for providing me with the essence of life.
