Tuesday, March 3, 2020


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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