she starts by adding flour to the bowl at night
when her children and husband begin winding down
there’s butter, water, eggs, and salt on the kitchen counter
each carefully measured on a scale or in a cup
her feet planted in the ground
as she begins to combine
her hands are a testament to the strength of a mother
the palms are meaty and warm
while the back is like a roadmap of dry skin
the heels dig into the parchment colored dough
pressing, kneading, tugging, pulling, unyielding
she rocks like an untethered seaboat
the raw dough looks like the surface of her first born’s bum
smooth and soft, without a blemish
the gluten needs to rest, just as much as she does
she puts the medium sized bowl into the proof box,
making sure it stays temperate through the night
making sure it’s snug and homelike
in the morning
when the roosters caw with the voice of a widow
and the mildew clings onto the sharp blades of grass
the dough overflows trickling down the sides of the porcelain bowl
where to go? Where to go? WHERE TO GO?
coalescing into a heaping mess with no control
there is nowhere to go.
it’s too hot
it’s too warm
it’s too scalding
it’s too much like the suffocating mid-july heat wind
no more, no more, no more
what’s more?
mother is rushing down the stairs, having overslept
oh, how her poor baby dough has outgrown the bowl
she gathers it into her sore hands
shaping it, comforting it, soothing it
placing it into the cast iron dutch oven
a final goodbye and embrace,
she places the lid over the pot, like a quilt on a quiet child
forgive and forget, she uses a knife to lacerate an arrowhead
placing it into the scorching oven, she gave a wide smile
coming out, the top is like a fall sunset
the sweet smell
with a touch of funk
lingers in the house long after it’s been cooled
it’s no longer dough, it’s finally bread
Chloe Szeto is a recent high school graduate. When she's not fencing, she's reading an absurd amount, writing stories about her feelings so she doesn't go delusional, and baking various sweet treats.