It starts simply.
Some flour, some water, then yeast.
It is mixed, and it is active.
It is alive.
Kneaded and pounded, then left to rest.
It is filled with air and rises with potential.
It is baked, and the aroma is intoxicating.
The smell of baking bread.
The aroma beckons us.
It speaks to us of home and comfort and sustenance.
The time has come.
The loaf is removed.
And there it sits, perfect in form and fragrance.
We gather around the cooling bread.
This loaf – which, done right, has been long in the making.
Forearms tired from kneading. All of that waiting.
And for what?
We rip into the bread, destroying all of the work with every bite.
The bread is consumed.
And in its death, we are fed. We are nourished.
It dies that we might live.
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