Sitting in Colorado
I think of my parents sitting
in Illinois,
how tonight in different
kitchens together we savor
the Slovenian sweet bread
of my father’s childhood,
the sweet bread
his mother would make—
savor not just the taste
but the memory of the taste,
the paper thin crust,
the ground walnuts,
the honey.
Savor not just the loaf
but the memory of the hands
that once made the loaf,
the happiness as we ate it,
the communion in the joy.
Tonight, I break the bread
into tiny pieces, eat it slow,
imagine us at the same
loving table now
and years and years ago.
We are alone, not alone.
The bread tastes
like family, like home.
If you are unfamiliar with this Eastern European nutroll delicacy (pronounced puh-TEET-suh), you can read more about it here.
Posts Tagged ‘bread’
Potica
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, daughter, food, grandmother, memory, parents on July 23, 2021| 2 Comments »
The Inner Cupboard
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, grace, love, parenting on April 22, 2020| 6 Comments »
No one else knows, as they eat the bread,
what’s been slipped into it,
how in with the flour, the yeast, the salt,
a stubborn devotion has slipped in.
It hides in an inner cupboard. Even the baker
doesn’t have the key. But when
she would rather not be loving—
because she is tired, because
she feels wronged, because she’s distracted—
that’s when the cupboard opens itself
and mixes into her the kind of devotion
that cannot be manufactured, the kind
of devotion that rises up not out of duty
but from some mysterious, infinite source
that guides her hands as they knead
the soft dough. It infuses her with a longing
to be big-hearted, a longing to love, even when love
feels unreasonable. She can smell it
as it fills the whole house with its generous
scent. Even now, as they sit and eat the bread,
it astonishes her, how ferocious
this drive to nourish, to love.
They pass the butter, the jam. She smiles
as they eat it together, slice after slice.
Shabbat
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, candle, food, kindness, poem, poetry, Shabbat on December 14, 2019| 7 Comments »
for Peter and Lisa
We covered our eyes with our hands
and repeated the sacred words that Peter said,
blessing the pomegranate juice, blessing
the challah bread. And when we were done
with the prayer, we removed our hands
from our eyes and the candlelit world
was surprisingly bright. Such a simple faith,
kindness. The willingness to invite another in,
to make them bread, to offer them soup,
to say to the other, Here. Feast. Rest. To share
ancient stories and offer new wisdom.
To pass the braided bread, hand to hand,
and eat it together. To listen to each other
until the candles had burned through all their wax.
To continue to listen after the light goes out.
Two Loaves
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, food, nourishment, poem, poetry on October 21, 2019| 3 Comments »
Oh, this alchemy of wheat,
salt, water, yeast and heat.
Something so holy about the art
of transforming grain into loaves,
how the scent of the baking infuses
the whole house with earthy incense.
I whisper poems into the bread,
sing to it as it rises, as it rests.
I think of every other woman,
every other man who, for over 14,500 years,
has kneaded and shaped the living dough.
I imagine all of us, flour on our cheeks,
pressing our hands into service,
all of us certain of one thing:
we are called to feed each other.
Trusting that Voice: The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, invention, poem, poetry, voice on July 7, 2019| 2 Comments »
It was this day, eight-nine years ago,
that Otto Frederick Rohwedder,
a jeweler from Davenport, Iowa,
got to see his invention in action—
yes, in Chillicothe, Missouri, a baker
used the bread slicer. Everyone said
it wouldn’t sell. Everyone said
the bread would go stale. Everyone
said the idea would fail. It’s compelling,
sometimes, what everyone says.
But sometimes, perhaps like Otto,
I hear the voice beneath the others.
It tells me to believe in improbable things.
Like poems changing the world.
Like Keatsian love. Like the immeasurable
pleasure that comes when the lever
goes down and all through the kitchen
floats the warm and earthy scent of toast,
the morning improving two slices at a time.
Oh Hush Up and Eat the Bread
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bread, ego, insecurity, love, poem, poetry, self image on April 29, 2012| 8 Comments »
Today it’s the bread
that reminds me
how human I am—
how I want people
to like the bread
that I baked, how I hope
they can taste
the organic grain
that I ground myself
for the pleasure
of grinding it, sure,
how I can get the texture
just the way I like it,
but also for some small
way it makes me feel
as if I am a better person
because I have ground
the flour. Oh it is
so tricky, the way
I start to believe
that if the people I love
like the bread I bake
that they will like me more.
As if rye and winter wheat
have anything to do
with who I am.
But I do not despise
the bread for this. Its taste
is the taste of harvest,
sunshine and rain,
patience and earth.
The bread wants nothing
and nourishes despite.
Nor do I despise myself
for the longing to be loved.
Well, not much.
So human, I tell myself
to think we’re not enough.
Of course we’re enough,
Of course. Just as we are.
Still, I can’t help but wonder
if I made the butter, too,
well, then they might really,
really love me.
six
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awe, bread, change, crow, haiku, heart, listening, lock, love, poem, transience, uncertainty on January 12, 2012| 2 Comments »
too many to count
petals on the orchard floor
he loves me?
*
rusted lock
in the heart’s back pocket
a spare key
*
snow on the ridges
come spring what else
will be missing?
*
almost asleep
these hands still kneading
soft dough
*
he talks
and talks and talks and talks
about listening
*
no temple bells
still the crow goes on
about awe, awe