A small argument for knowing where your breakfast came from.
The best bread I have ever eaten was from a bakery in a town I cannot find on a map anymore. I wrote down the name and lost the paper. I have thought about it many times since.
What made it good was not unusual ingredients or technique — it was the fact that it was made by someone for people they knew, in a quantity that would be used up by noon. This is a specific and increasingly rare thing.
I have been buying bread from a bakery three streets away for two years now. The baker is a man in his sixties who has been doing this in the same kitchen for longer than I have been alive. He is not interested in my opinion of his bread. This is correct.
There is a satisfaction that comes from this kind of transaction that has nothing to do with the bread itself — or rather, it is entirely to do with the bread, but the bread includes the relationship, the place, the hour at which you have to arrive to get the right loaf.