Is there anything in the world better than the smell of baking bread?
He moves around the kitchen with purpose. First, he takes each ingredient out of the cupboard and carefully places it on the counter. Flour and sugar and salt and butter and eggs and baking powder. All lined up in a neat little row.
Then comes all the necessary measuring instruments and bowls. A teaspoon, a tablespoon, a half cup, a full cup, all placed with care in front of the ingredients. Everything necessary is included. The bowl stands prominently in front of everything, like a general proudly standing at attention in front of his troops.
He breathes deeply and sighs. Once. Then once again as if letting go countless little weights, burdens of nothing, little bags of air, that once opened are proved to be nothing. After a moments pause, he starts moving again with the firm motions of a man who knows what he wants.
The ingredients are all mixed together. Carefully measured first, of course. This isn’t an operation to be taken lightly. All things worth doing are worth doing right. A baker, just like a chef, must eat his mistakes.
The ingredients mix together clumsily, but with a beautiful chaos. There is a harmony to the things that come together to make bread. Any kind of bread is a wonderful, miraculous thing. Pieces of nothing come together to become something of substance, something of sustinence that keep body and soul together. Together.
Out the big picture window, birds sing and flutter about for a last hurrah before night falls. The baker takes the briefest moment to smile and feel the happiness, the freedom. There is a terrible weight underneath the freedom, though.
The ingredients are putting themselves together. With a shrug, he gets back to work. Careful. Again, be careful. A little too much will mess the whole thing up. What will they say? What will they think? We don’t want to disappoint.
The baker shakes his head and with furrowed brow gets back to mixing the beautiful, fragrant ingredients together. They aren’t fragrant in a floral sense at all, but in a real, earthy, full sense. A sense of resounding humanity. What’s more human than the bread that keeps man alive?
With a few more spins around the bowl with a handy wooden spoon, the baker is careful to scrape as much as possible from the sides, not missing much at all. The dough has come together well. It’s just mixed together, just as the directions say. The directions. Silly. The recipe.
For another foolish moment he thinks about the first person to make bread. How could this possibly happen? How could it happen without divine intervention? How could man just make bread out of nothing at all? Mana out of the air?
This beautiful thing must be a gift, he thinks. From god. Or something.
With one more gentle whisk around the bowl, the ingredients are ready. The baker readies his bread pan. Nine by five, of course, just as directed. Carefully greased, of course. With a steady hand, he works the soupy dough out of the bowl and into the pan.
It flows slowly, stickily. It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate and for a moment, the baker frowns. Is it supposed to be like this? Who knows? Who cares. With a tight grin, he finishes up with a look of sheer concentration. Furrowed brow. Careful, he says in a bare whisper, Grandpa says wasting is a sin. Said.
Grandpa would love what you bake, baker. He would be so proud. Sad, too. But, who wouldn’t be? Bake your bread, baker.
With the back of the spoon, the baker smooths the heavy dough. He wants it to be perfect. It must be perfect. If not, then… Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. It always is.
Sometimes he worries too much about perfection. Things don’t have to be perfect, they told him. Not always. Our imperfections are what make us unique. Uniquely human, that is. It’s OK to be human. Right? Of course, they say. We’re all human. Right?
The baker laughs and checks the oven. It beeped minutes ago, he’s sure, to tell him that it was preheated to just the right temperature. Perfect. Of course. In goes the nice little pan full of wonderful dough. God, the smell.
He can’t help but stand and sigh. Happy. Bread makes him…
He can’t help but feel something. What is it, though? What is it that he feels? You don’t know, do you? Tomorrow the kids will come. And they’ll eat his bread. They love it. Of course, it’s their favorite. Daddy, you’re the best cooker in the whole world. Yes, they love it. And he does it for them. Always.
He sets the timer and looks out the window. The birds are still fluttering around. With purpose. Tomorrow the kids will come.
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