I came home from school to
fifteen loaves of freshly baked Rye bread.
My mother was always making things. Making things for other people. Other people's children.
Warm scarves for all the poor in Africa.
Busy busy. Gone gone.
I'd eat a whole loaf of bread myself sometimes.
Trying to find love in it.
Trying to find my mother.
What a weird thing
trying to find your mother in a loaf of bread,
in a scarf that even wrapped too tight
never felt like conversation.
Fresh warm bread is the best thing ever--one of them--but not fresh warm bread is gross. Especially if it's been microwaved. Microwaved bread is gross. I grew up in one of those recovering-hippie families--my dad thought microwaves were evil and dangerous, so a microwave's still not something I use.(more) My father passed away before the era of cell phones, but I think he might have been one of those people protesting cell phone towers, still only using his house phone--impossible to reach, in other words. But less likely to come down with certain kinds of cancer. Except he's dead anyway. So protesting cell phones? Moot point.
He made really good bread. Whole wheat, and he liked to put stuff in it: sunflower seeds (from the sunflowers in his garden, of course), sometimes raisins, other stuff too, depending. He didn't grow the wheat himself, but we'd go to the farm it came from every year, get wheat--they ground it into flour for us--and pumpkins, pick apples, the whole shebang. I guess we went to that farm a few times a year.
Then we'd have fresh bread, smooth or lumpy--those are the ways we categorized it, me and my sisters--and it was best warm. Though when it's still fresh from that morning, just cooled down, it's still really good. So much better than most of the bread I eat these days.(less)