making bread

It's not something that we did in our family, so I have no memories of making bread, the way I have of licking cake batter out of a bowl in my grandmother's kitchen or of learning to fish a strand of pasta out of boiling water and test it with my teeth. At one of my stepbrothers' weddings, the bride read a poem about shaping dough and braiding loaves, about bread and faith, bread and love. And I search my mind for the words, because I'm making bread.

I'm making bread and, standing at the sink, I let the water run through my fingers and, when it's warm enough, pour it into a bowl with the yeast and sugar. My mother once gave me a book that said that love isn't a pitcher that you pour from until it's empty, but, instead, love is a well that you can dip a bucket into again and again, and the more you take out, the more there is left. I can visualize the black-and-white drawing that went with the words, but, even at seven, I could see that the author didn't know anything about either wells or love.

Still, I'm making bread, measuring the salt and butter, adding the rest of the flour a little at a time, turning the dough over and over in my hands, fighting its warp and spring. Then there's the rosemary, rosemary for remembrance, I think as I walk upstairs, because I can't help thinking it. The room's emptier than I would have guessed, but on the floor are six of L's guitars, silent in cases as black as coffins and, on the windowsill, the rosemary, green and thriving, curling towards the light. I strip the piny leaves into my palm, and, back in the kitchen, I spread them on a cutting board and run the knife over them, working them into the dough. The dough rises and doubles, the way it's supposed to and I punch it down and divide it into two round loaves, then wait for it to double again.

I'm making bread and, as I set the timer one last time, I stop and consider. And what I think is this: what bread is made of is yeast and water, sugar, flour, butter, work and time. And there's a recipe and, if I've followed it, I'll open the oven and find two warm and perfect loaves. But, though it's easy enough to lose track of, whatever else I might try to make of it, in the end, I'm only making bread.