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!