Bread From the Heart

Benjamin cracked an egg atop the mound of flour and began to mix the dough. The ingredients initially resisted each other - the flour rising like an island from the cold and runny egg that pooled around it in the mixing bowl. Benjamin's hands moved with the surety of experience, coaxing a union out of the uneasy bowlfellows. He transferred the newly formed ball of dough to a flour-dusted counter after mixing in some yeast and spices.

Benjamin worked the dough for fifteen minutes until it had developed a smooth elasticity. He set the dough in a bowl to rest, covered it with a dishtowel and took a seat on a stool next to the counter. Benjamin waited there until the dough had doubled in size, about three hours, never taking his eyes off of that bowl.

He dumped the risen dough out onto the counter, sending up a small plume of flour. After punching down the soft mass he began to form it into a short, fat loaf. He brushed the loaf with a mix of olive oil, sea salt and rosemary and slashed the top three times with a knife. Benjamin moved the loaf to a baking pan and placed the whole lot in the oven. He flipped the oven's light switch and a gauzy yellow glow illuminated the pale, white loaf of almost-bread. Benjamin dragged the stool over and took a seat facing the oven.

Fifteen minutes passed and the bread had cooked through, the outside edges hardened into a golden-brown crust. Benjamin turned off the light and removed the bread from the oven, setting it on a cooling rack. He reclaimed his seat on the stool and closed his eyes. The smell of baking bread surrounded him, filled his lungs, nesting in his brain, his heart. He breathed slowly and deeply, thinking of her.

When the movie playing in his mind had ended he opened his eyes and focused on the loaf, thin wisps of steam still curling from its surface. He rose from the stool and slowly, deliberately walked to the cooling rack. He thumped the bread once, twice, then sadly shook his head. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t perfect — it wasn’t good enough for her. He grabbed the loaf and turned, surveying the kitchen.

Hundreds of loaves of bread were piled in mounds on the floor, on the small table, occupying every surface save for the counter and his stool. The loaves on the bottom of the mounds were already going rancid, mold gaining footholds in the hard nooks of the aging crusts. None of them had met Benjamin’s stringent criteria. None of them were good enough. Benjamin threw the new, imperfect loaf on top of one of the piles and turned back to the counter, softly sobbing to himself.

He gave himself a minute and composed himself, sighed deeply, and then cracked an egg atop the mound of flour and began to mix the dough.