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.
