I have the ritual in place, now—my breadbaking. I use my mother’s wooden bowl for the second rising, the bowl she used for her own bread (and for popcorn during Sunday football). I use her soft ruby-red rooster (cockerel) dish towel to cover it. I add a bit of Cretan thyme honey, dissolving it in just-warm water like a baby’s milk. I have my ocean colored pot, my pan of water on the oven’s bottom shelf for the sake of the crust, the wire rack for cooling—only not too long, because the slicing is the best!
I am feeling sad this morning though, because at the last minute I ruined the symmetry, the lovely round shape of the loaf, and it has come out lopsided, though full of different seeds, nutty and fine.
And I still miss the kneading of the older, longer ritual, the laying on of hands. I feel each time again that I am cheating, not getting involved enough or giving as much as I ought.
image: Frühstückskorb mit Brötchen, 3268Zauber
(And maybe, after all, my lopsided loaf is really just heart-shaped, like this one . . .)