Unleavened

Mom just poked her head into my room to see if I wanted anything to do with the loaf of bread that just came out of the oven.  My bedroom happens to be the outcast room. You know, the one they put on the opposite side of the house, exiled from all the other bedrooms?  Most of the time exile also means late night serenades from garage doors, dishwashers, and tap dancing dryers followed up by early morning wake-up calls from coffee grinders &  juice machines. 

But occasionally, like tonight, I get a little love over on this side of the house. Tonight I am thankful for the lingering smell of yeast, ground wheat, and honey that have enveloped my little bedroom. I love bread. Everything about it- the smell, the taste, the images evoked, the artform that lives in the process of creating it, it’s earthiness, it’s symbolism.

I love that my mother is a breadmaker. You would never guess that she is.  She certainly doesn’t emanate that “I am woman, master of baked goods” persona. But she is indeed a master-artist. She is so patient in the process- grinding the wheat, adding the yeast, kneading the dough, watching it rise, baking, then checking, more baking, more checking, and finally letting the finished products cool beautifully on metal racks.  A spiritual experience of sorts, and I guess, why shouldn’t it be?..

 

Makes me think of Passover, And communion bread, And the Hebrews leaving Egypt, And brokeness and oneness.  Jesus wasn’t kidding about the power that exists in breaking bread with others.  I love the simplicity of the call to break bread–

That call to share life and nourishment both spiritually and physically. 

For me, the great struggle to check my cynicism at the door and find my place at the table.   And to show up, EVEN when there isn’t romantic lighting and I didn’t get seated at the same table as Brad Pitt. 

Yes, I can hear that quiet voice asking, Will I still answer the call to break bread, when my life is Bakersfield and not Africa? When it is waiting tables and not writing for the New York times?  When it is sleeping in my old high school room and not a funky little studio in Florence? Will I still share when my plate is not full by my “personal” standards?  When my bread looks alot more like a 25 cent loaf of bleached white wonder bread than a piping hot white-chocolate- almond scone?                                       

Perhaps,  I will answer the call, wonder bread in hand. And I am trying to on those days when I  realize it really isn’t about “me” and “what” I am doing or “where” I am going or how “witty or intellectual” I happen to think I am on any given day. 

But rather,

“Whom am I with” and “How shall I love thee?”

that perhaps is the true beauty of breaking bread…

But for tonight it is just Mom & I in my old room, melted butter on fresh baked bread. 

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow it will be my crazy little Italian restaurant co-workers & I, iced teas and over-sized portions of pasta.

cheers~

november. novembre. noviembre.

November can spell “cornucopia” backwards.  She  teaches children to remember Pilgrims & Indians.  November likes to linger on the last chapter. She is self-reflective. November has a campaign scrapbook.  She creates real connections. November’s voice can be heard by all people. She gives with all her heart. November turns departures into arrivals. She listens. And reaches out. November inherited the first recipe for pumpkin pie. She IS a historical fact. November can hear winter’s voice.  Her wisdom is her intuition.  November always remembers to give thanks.  She always dances holding hands.