Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.
No poet I. Not even bread baker on any regular basis. That has been D's role for almost 20 years. He actually makes the bread we eat every week, or when we've eaten more than our usual fill, whichever comes first. Oh sure, we pick up a baguette or Niedlov's multiseed/grain now and again, but the bread that L has grown up on is the bread her father bakes.
I find that quietly amazing. There is a connection between baking, poetry, and peace. A space in the day for contemplation in the kneading. The small miracle of the rising. Oven spring! Exciting. Final nourishment after the baking. No bread tastes just right as his does.
L's bread is pictured at right. A lifetime of seeing her father create something on a regular basis for family consumption has spurred her interest the same.
While I make the popovers and the biscuits on a whim, his baking continues assuredly. Ahh.