Baking Bread
"You can knead this time," I tell my husband,
and he dips his hands into the bowl, straight
into the sticky mess. The dough refuses a shape,
cakes his palms, fingers, and wedding ring. He
dumps it on the flour-dusted counter, massage it
side to side, up and down, until it leaves traces
of its path everywhere. He moves dough between
his hands, alarmed by its clinging. "Just wait! It will
peel right off," I promise, and he keeps kneading,
waiting for the dough to form a smooth ball, pulling
away from the counter, his hands, ready to rest
after all of this needing.
No comments:
Post a Comment