A mound of flour sits pristine in the middle of the board
And then I drop the wet dough into the middle of the flour mound
The smell of yeast filling my nose with anticipation
I dip my hands in the cool white flour
It is so soft and smooth and cool to the touch
And then the rhythm of kneading overtakes me
An act so ancient and primal connecting me with my ancestors
Pushing the dough forward with the heels of my hands
And then pulling it back towards me while rolling the top part under
Repeatedly pushing and pulling the dough
Working in enough flour to keep it from sticking to the board
Pushing and pulling to build the gluten
Pushing and pulling until the dough feels just right
My hands, arms, shoulders and back all working together
A fluid motion repeated over and over again
Until – almost like magic – the yeasty sticky stringy lump of dough
Has transformed into a smooth stretchy ball of dough
Ready to rest and rise, hidden beneath a towel
I lift the corner of the towel and peek into the bowl and smile
Where there was a ball of dough in the bottom of the bowl
There is now a bowl full of fluffy bread dough just begging to be baked
Punching down the dough with my fists
Forming loaves and letting them rise again
Waiting – Waiting – Waiting
Until the dough has risen and has formed puffy white loaf shapes
I pop them Into the hot oven to bake
Filling the house with the smell of baking bread
Taking me back to a simpler time
Anticipating the first warm slice of fresh bread
Finally, the loaves are out of the oven and cooling on racks
A beautiful sight to behold
Loaves of bread to nourish my family
Made from my own two hands