Bread

I hate to cook, but I love making bread.

I rarely have time or patience, but on special occasions, I'll do it.  At first I resist it: the mess, the kneading, the waiting, but once I start the process, it centers me, connects me to something sacred.

The worst part is the measuring.  I all too often resist the measuring in my life because all I want to do is skip this step and jump into the beauty that comes after.  And now I wonder how much I miss this way, but today, my family has insisted, so I stand at my kitchen covered in flour and salt, listening to the yeast bubble as it comes alive and devours the sugar.

Kneading the bread in my hands, I imagine myself a sculpture or a potter, and in someway I invoke the spirit of their craft, molding my bread into loaves.  This mundane job every holiday is also mystical. It is the ancient tradition of making something grow out of the coarse and colorless and in doing so I feel the power of creation and sense a deep connection to the Earth, to humanity, and to God.

The aroma of baking bread is like no other scent.  It fills my house, and my family sighs in anticipation of the first warm slice smothered in melted butter.  But for me, my joy is already complete, and this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for the time to make bread.