The only thing wrong ...

I baked seven-grain bread this afternoon. It's one of the two breads I make regularly. As I sliced it, I remembered the first time I made it, about three years ago.
Mike was here, just waiting for the bread to cool enough to slice. I wasn't confident in the bread, fearing it would be too dry. It was the first time I'd made up my own bread recipe, so I was ready for failure.
But as I was looking at that first slice daring myself to taste it, Mike had already cut himself a piece and had slathered butter on it.
I looked at him as he bit into it -- my brutally honest taster was about to render his verdict.
"Oh man," he said with his mouth still full. "The only thing wrong with this bread is that it isn't at my house."