The Ritual of Bread

It is a gentle summer afternoon and I have a bowl full of golden white wheat flour laid out. It has an earthy fragrance- like it never quite forgot the fields it came from and part of it yearns to go back there still. I run my fingers through its grainy texture, rubbing between thumb and forefinger and letting it slide off my palm. I feel how each grain must have exploded as the millstones ground and ground and ground, gold to white, and gold to white. And as I stand there, I wonder how many men and women and children over the millennia stood just as I am, with both hands covered in flour- just as I did. It is a ritual honed over lifetimes upon lifetimes. Continue reading

Advertisements