About two years ago, I decided I would do my utmost to stop buying bread for my kids. They eat sandwiches every day for lunch and I just couldn’t get over the amount of crap on the labels on even the healthiest of breads. So I adopted my sister’s bread maker and changed the way we ate. I loved that machine. I even wrote about cheating on my man because of bread. The breadmaker was my gateway to scratch bread and now I even have my own recipe I use that pleases the whole clan (this week).
It’s gotten so commonplace, that making bread has become just another chore. In my more defiant weeks, I buy a store bought loaf and swear I’ll never knead another pile of dough for as long as I live. But then other days, I relish the near meditative state that can come from the kneading and rolling. I take the time to slow down and marvel at the fascinating chemistry at work when the yeast foams or the tiny blob of dough rises into a genuine loaf. On good days, bread is a metaphor for life. I have to slow down. I have to be patient and most of all, I have to trust the process, even if the current evidence suggests failure, time and faith will yield exactly what I need to be nourished and full.
That is wonder.