baking bread

Assignment #5: food

My apartment, last night: suburban lights twinkling outside, uninterrupted by skyscraper, ambient music in the background (“oh this uncertainty is taking me over”), countertop strewn with flour, oven preheating to four hundred.  In my life, there are few outlets for creative control.  There is writing, but she is a harsh, cruel, and fickle mistress.  My hands cannot play an instrument or draw a still-life or knit a scarf.  No, my hands can do only one thing: bake. 

I find great serenity in stainless steel measuring cups and silicon spatulas, in the rhythmic spirals of the stand mixer.  I like watching ingredients transform into delicious delicacies.  I love the patterns created when chocolate meets vanilla.  Last night, though, it was more elemental:  I baked bread, dipped my hands in water and kneaded dough on granite until it became soft and pliant.  I hummed quietly (“that I would be good”) as I flattened the ball and carved an “x” on the top.  I washed dishes, drank a glass of red and breathed deep of the aroma filling my small space.  When it was done, I glazed it with homemade honey-butter, sprinkled flax seed for a little taste of earthiness, and sat it upon the cooling rack. 

This is where I find peace: in dough and warmth and goodness.
("couldn't be alone couldn't be alone couldn't be alone")