Shouldn't…but Do

Outside cold, clear sun shines on snow.  Half-way down the sky, angled light streams in a western window.  This is when I make bread.

I sing to wake the yeast, wait until it foams, mix and stir by hand until shaggy.  As the sun slides over my left shoulder I turn the dough out to knead.

Kneading bread takes some time, a little strength.  After I got the cast off my broken wrist last year, kneading was painful, but helped me regain flexibility.

Somewhere in the kneading, time falls out, sun falls in. I work the prima materia.  Iteration into simple, edible elegance.

Better bakers than me speak to the meditative quality of working a clump of ingredients into a smooth living form.

Like people, once worked, bread must rest to rise.  Later, when hot and fresh, it will sidle up to thick-noodled chicken soup.

A little light on the subject, when sun comes in the window, I make bread.