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In the days before jungle gyms and lunchboxes and math, I made bread with Mother. She possessed secrets of the sort only entrusted to Mothers and would add and mix and coax the flour and water and sugar and yeast into delightful doughy harmony. I was her capable assistant, grabbing and passing whatever my tiny arms could reach, or tramping around the kitchen when I got bored. Trust me, I was indispensable.
When it came time to knead, two thumbprints formed eyes and a long fold formed a mouth, and the ball of dough became a friend. Tip-toed on a stool so I could peer above the floured counter, he and I bantered back and forth before he was rolled up, laid out, and reformed. I think his name was usually George. George was destined for a fiery end, but even at that young age my mind had enough foresight not to mourn his passing as he slid into the oven. He was meant for greater things, and he and I would meet again on another weekend afternoon. During his metamorphoses I built castles in the gravel of our driveway, fought orcs and goblins on the hill of our side yard, and sneakily scaled the side of our porch on secret missions with secret agendas, but I never strayed far from the kitchen door while the oven was on; wander away and the aroma would go woefully unappreciated. And when Mother finally called, I would run in for a slice of the nutty brown loaf, soft and warm and buttered. Ambrosia.
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May 2020
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