Bread

Bread, bread salubrious bread,
Its warm yeasty aroma just goes to our head.
A kind, giving manna, it sustains us to thrive.
May bakers long wake early to help the loaves rise.

What know ye of bread? That all cultures have their own leavened and simple unleavened breads that were baked traditionally in ovens of stone and clay. Know ye that in some places bread is folded, kneaded, rolled, woven even pulled into well respected, revered shapes and that a rectangle is only one of them. Know that bread can be made of maize as well as wheat, manioc, potatoes or rye. That bread is sacred. That it is made not by merely our own two strong hands but by the multitudes that grow the grain, mill it and populate it’s very soul by billions and billions of cooperating yeast families all as bent on enjoying their moment alive as we are when supping before the fire with fresh crusty loaf and refreshing drink. That it’s an old, old very old ancient foodstuff. That its pleasant scent can recreate fond memories, treasured reveries of home and health. That it often takes time, patience, that what it takes it returns manyfold. That it could be bought for a penny, can be humbly given and gratefully received, has been worth more than a wheelbarrow of cash. That a patent exists for toast. That it should be sniffed when having a shot of vodka. Draftsmen would use it as erasers and to blot excess ink from blueprints. It is good bait for catfish. Dried and varnished it makes a lasting table decoration. Loaves can make slippers good for a few laughs.

This frolic is for the bakers at the off the side of the road Breadfarm bakery in Edison, Washington, a tiny morsel of a town north of Seattle who provided both a delicious loaf, inexpensively, and a bit of sourdough starter that will go on about living it’s own happy little life, making more loaves in exchange for a poem scrawled on a bit of paper, a finished version of which begins this post.