I made wheat bread. It’s been forever and a day since I’ve made this particular bread, and I don’t know why I haven’t made it in so long. It used to be a staple in our home. The kids, especially, like it. Recently, independent of each other, they asked Do we have any, Will you make some, Why haven’t we had that in so looooong?
(No, yes, and I don’t know.)
How do I forget something like baking bread we all enjoy? How do I get so distracted that it doesn’t enter my mind? What exactly am I busy thinking about, busy doing?
(I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.)
Finally, I made the bread. We had one of my favorite lunches together that day. The bread, warm from the oven. Butter, honey, aged gouda, sharp cheddar. Blackberries and raspberries on the side.
I’m always struck by how simple that meal is, and how very satisfying.
I’m also struck by the way a few simple ingredients come together and become bread. Magic.
As I gathered the ingredients, as I touched the springy dough, as it rose under a damp, cotton towel, as it baked in the oven, I kept wondering about not having baked this bread in so long. I decided: it’s okay that I forgot about this bread, this lunch, this ritual. It’s okay because, eventually, I remembered.
Whether it’s bread or writing or meditation—when I get quiet enough to listen (to myself, to those around me)—there are clear messages. Sure tellings. There are directions for simple living. Worries are part of living. But if I only worry, I’ll forget to bake wheat bread. I’ll forget to put out the butter and honey. I’ll forget to slice the cheese. I’ll forget to rinse the berries.
Simple. Delicious. Now I remember.
(Yes, yes, carry on.)
always the love, m
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