Day Three

Today's entry is thanks to baking this morning. I wasn't baking bread, but the hard work of making bread from scratch fit the analogy I was going for. A lot of times this is how poems start for me- a few paragraphs that I initially write in my journal. So, perhaps I have a poem in here somewhere, but for today it is just a beginning:

There’s something more satisfying about baking than other kinds of cooking. It’s therapeutic- the way you toil and mix and wait- getting lost in thought is nearly automatic. The same way some people exercise or kick box to get rid of stress or work through their thoughts I will bake. Cakes, cookies or bread- it doesn’t really matter to me.

Bread is best of all, I think. A need to knead can work you through some of the most complex thoughts or problems. The slow rise of dough gives you time to ponder, to consider, weighing your options. As yeast begins its quiet work I begin preparing myself for the lost thought of discovery or regret, happiness or disappointment. The hard work of flipping dough, adding flour little by little, making it more and more difficult work as you knead it: flip, turn, and flatten. I sink my hands deep into the problem, deeper into thought. Bread is best for contemplative moments. In the hour of free time while I wait for the rise- I clean the counters. Clear the slate for the next step; clear my mind of all the things that have been weighing me down. Punch the dough down, divide it into loaves. Punch down the demons in my head; divide the problems in those I can fix and those I need to get over. As the final rise and baking take place I sit with my tea and sigh. The true nature of bread: therapy for what ails you.