It's morning, and the big pin oak in the front yard, nearly bereft of leaves,
leans on the shoulder of the clouds, raises 1000 fingers to heaven, and sleeps 'til spring.
dark clouds cover the sky
and layer a gray texture
But it's cozy inside,
and I'm in my
bread making mode,
making my favorite recipe,
a wheat bread
with garlic and herbs,
I like the kneading best, that gentle rhythm that starts with the hands
and works its way down to the toes.
"I've never had a runner's high, but I'd trade one any day for a kneader's high",
I tell Don, who's standing by in the kitchen.
"You're not the only one around here who kneads bread", Don said.
"Uh-oh", I thought. A statement like that usually precedes something slightly silly.
Sure enough, he had just composed a poem:
I've always needed bread,
Just simply knew I did,
I've had it in my head
Ever since I was a kid.
He fills in the rest later:
And then I told my wife,
And this is what she said,
"Let me lay down my knife
and I will knead your bread."
He never fails to make me smile.
Today I roll the dough out and bake it as flat bread, a thin, crispy bread
like my ancestors in Norway and Sweden used to make to keep them through the winter, and cut it up into cracker size. Nearly any yeast bread recipe can be rolled out like this, and it keeps well, at least in theory. We can never leave it alone long enough to tell.
"It is written: 'People do not live on bread alone,
but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.'"
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