I found love in a loaf of homemade bread
I am up at 2:30 in the morning. I am slathering butter across this homemade bread. I am devoring each piece like a starving buzzard, while I tearfully watch the last episode of The Office for the third time . I feel no shame in describing this moment to you. Why? Because I am happy. This happiness transcends ANYTHING I have felt for anyone in my entire life.
I don’t mean that but….
Not so pretty on the outside. I thought I burned it. And I got really sad. Cause I thought it was ruined. But instead of throwing them away, they popped out with ease leaving behind a trail of buttery residue. So then I cut one in half. And that first bit was ok. Then I actually sliced the mini loaves. And rubbed room temp butter on them (not that I needed to because it was hot enough already). Jesus be a fence.
Fluffy buttery light soft yeasty. Low key spongy. A sweet crisp
Love is fresh baked bread
And It made me realize that I love cooking. I love food. I love the way I felt. The way I FEEL. Cooking was so important to me. I mean, yea I know for a fact that I don’t want to work in a live action kitchen as an assemble man. Putting your piece (or two) of contribution to putting the plate together,(not that its not amazingly hard and beautiful work) is nothing compared to walking step by step with a plate; with your hands involved in every bit of its cultivation, that’s magic to me.
I got some thinking to do…