Monday, August 17, 2009

Bread Baking

It's very hot today. Summer has finally arrived. The heat reminded me of stories my grandmother told me when I was a child. I loved hearing how different her life was to mine. Her home had no electricity, so bedtime was when the sun went down. In winter that meant long sleeps. I wonder if people had sleeping problems then like they do today. With the work harder, I imagine that their sleep was sweeter.

Grandmother likes to tell me about a time
She helped her mother bake bread.
Outside in ovens made of brick and stone
Its aroma filled the air, she said.

Grandmother smiles remembering the bread,
Brown bread she helped bake.
Pounding balls of dough on large stone slabs
Until her arms began to ache.

I like to think how she must have looked
Collecting wood to build the fire.
Until it reached the right color and temperature,
Her face red with perspire.

Grandmother couldn't wait for the bread to cool.
And tells me how good it tasted.
And though it lasted for just a few days
Not a piece of it was wasted.

I asked Grandmother, “Do you miss that bread?
And how it tasted so fresh and good.”
She nods and says she misses the taste of the bread,
But not cutting all that fire wood.

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