There are few practices I hold in reverence the way I do the art of bread-making. The smell of yeast, flour, water, and olive oil fills the room like the presence of a loved one — someone I’ve known since childhood, on the counters of my grandmother’s kitchen or dining room table. It’s with pride that I invite it into my home each week. My hands work to caress and knead the ingredients into something greater, which can sustain me and others.
The wide, south-facing window in my living room gets the perfect amount of sunlight. It warms the windowsill where I rest my dough for its first rise — where I wait for it to bask, to live, and grow under the damp cloth I’ve tucked it in. Later, floured hands pull the dough from rest and place it into the oven. The dough is transformed from being into bread; fresh and steaming. The crust burns my fingers and stings my palm, but the heat settles lovingly in my stomach. And yet, this satisfaction is not enough. I cannot wait to share bread with others, the same way my grandmother did with me.
