Bread
and Salt
March
1 2020
The
bakers are up before the sun
no
matter what,
while
the rest of us slumber
snug
in bed.
Their
floured hands
and
plain white aprons,
well-worn
cotton
crusted
and stained.
The
smell of yeast
like
warm damp earth.
And
the industrial oven
blasting
out heat.
In
the grip of winter
what
delectable comfort
coming
in from the cold.
But
how oppressive, in summer,
when
the women glow
and
the men perspire
and
half-moons of sweat
soil
their clothes.
When
they lean over long low tables
kneading
stretchy dough;
skin
clammy, brows dripping,
their
sweat mixing-in with the bread.
Like
the offering
of
bread and salt
with
which strangers are welcomed
into
our homes.
The
communal table
the
festive loaf.
So
in the the early hours
on
soft summer days
the
neighbourhood is redolent
of
freshly baked bread,
wafting
into my kitchen
through
the open window
on
cool morning air.
Where
it mixes with strong black coffee
and
breakfast sausage
sizzling
in oil,
crisp
fried eggs
in
a cast iron pan.
In
spring
with
scented blossoms, newly bloomed;
their
sweetness
like
sugar in my coffee
honey
on toast.
There
was an industrial bakery down the hill from my house, and in the late
hours a sweet yeasty smell would envelope the neighbourhood. There is
nothing like the smell of fresh baked bread ...even that pulpy white
styrofoam stuff.
I hope
the description of the sweaty bakers doesn't strike the reader as too
distasteful or too graphic. Because I can't imagine this doesn't
happen. You might recognize in this an old aphorism that I've always
quite liked: the saying that goes “horses sweat, men perspire, and
women glow.” A good way to keep straight the appropriate euphemism!
Some
poetic license here, as usual. No eggs or sausage for me. Hot black
coffee only. ...And anytime, freshly baked bread!
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