Why Bread Triumphs Over Death

Whenever I bake bread
Grandma is here.
I knead dough on

the board in her kitchen,

scoop flour from her bin

She hovers, ibbur-like

as I settle the dough to rise

in her thick, ocher bowl

I slide glistening loaves

in the oven and wait

in her arms

breathing in the aroma

of warm bread

This is for G-man and his kick-ass FF55 where you can read lots of cool 55 word long bits and pieces.

Image: realbakingwithrose.com

My Offering

I had the most wonderful grandma ever. She was good and kind and white-haired, just like grandmas are supposed to be. But I swear in another time my Grandma McCauley would have been a shaman or a druid. Her pale, blue eyes saw so much, even after they were covered with cataracts; and she had a wisdom that was almost other-worldly, yet so connected to the earth. Actually, the first image of Grandma that comes to mind is in the garden; she was an organic farmer long before that was cool. But I also remember her making the most wonderful homemade bread, and when I recently made the loaf pictured below my thoughts went to her.




Smell
the warm
crusty bread
my offering
fresh from the oven
kneading, resting, rising
I become my grandmother
standing in her warm, safe kitchen
we are communion through time and space
generously passing out bread and love

Smell the warm crusty bread, my offering