“Bread is the warmest, kindest of all words. Write it always with a capital letter, like your own name.”
—from a café sign
Bread. I have always loved making it. Mixing it, watching the yeast bubble, kneading, shaping and covering it to rise are meditation for me. I haven’t made my own bread for years. It brings back good memories.
College .The Ultimate Earth girl makes two loaves of bread every morning then goes off to class. I get back to the tiny apartment near Portland State early in the afternoon. The bread is gone. My friends are there.
“There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”
Mountain Bread. The smell of baking bread comes from the woodstove at the cabin in Rhododendron. It’s cold outside. Skiing weather. My kids are hanging around the kitchen. They like to punch the bread down after it rises.
“Oh, God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt, and after the egg is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh warm bread and a mug of sweet golden tea?”
—Frank McCourt from Angela’s Ashes
Mt. Baker Bread. Kneading bread. Watching the snow fall on Mt. Baker from my kitchen window. My mind wanders. I look for the special dishcloth, the one that has been embroidered by my grandma, to cover the loaf while it rises. The bread won’t taste the same without it.
“All sorrows are less with bread.”
Timber Valley Bread. Whole wheat. An experiment. Cody, my dog, guards the rising dough in front of the fireplace. I share the first piece with him.
“If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.”
Sara’s Bread. Not yet in the oven. It will surprise her.