Creation

The shrill song of the wheat grinder breaks the stillness of the hot summer air. Hundreds of hard red grains sink into the unseen whirling mechanisms. The sight and sound are hypnotic, drawing me away from the to-do list scurrying around my mind. I lift the white top off of the silver base, and pause to sift the staff of life through my fingers. The texture is very different from the sort of flour you would buy in a store. It's less silky and ethereal, more substantial and earthy. It feels more real. I measure the yeast, molassess, salt and hot tap water into a large steel bowl. The recipe is so familiar I have no need to retrieve the small brown bread book from its resting place. I dump some flour in, watching the cream colored mountain break up into icebergs and then disappear in the rythmic circling of my fork. I can see the gluten start to gather, I imagine a conga line of gluten people and laugh. I pour another, smaller mountain of flour on the table, and scrape my infant dough into it. I gently fold it in on itself, bathing it in milk-powder flour. I massage it out, and repeat. Kneading the bread is not zen-like. It IS zen. I feel the changing tension under my unrelentless knuckles and know that it has had enough. I lay it to rest in it's steel cradle, tenderly tucking a clean, hot, damp dishtowel around the firm, resisting ball. A couple hours later I pull crisp crusted brown loaves out of the oven and slice in, revealing tender steaming hot bread. Pale yellow butter soaks into the sturdy, grainy surface. It is good.