A Loaf of Homemade Bread
A loaf of homemade bread is not what I anticipate today. Yet after shopping yesterday in Charlottesville with my daughter, Polly, I drive her home. As I prepare to go to my nearby home, her friend John hands me an oblong loaf of whole-grained bread that he has made, enclosed in a plastic bag that started life filled with bulk grains from The Cheese Shop.
For me, homemade gifts are the purest gifts that exist and my heart always swells when I am given one. I embrace and thank John, hug and say good-night to Polly and the three dogs: Macy, Lucy, and Blue.
Some hours later, working at my computer, I begin to feel hungry. I rise and go to the kitchen to see what I have. There, on the counter, sits the loaf of homemade bread. I smile and decide a slice of this bread will be my meal’s centerpiece and I’ll build more around it. In the fridge, my eyes are drawn to the large plastic container that holds several different cheeses. I’d purchased them after I decided I’d make that 9 Cheese Mac and Cheese recipe soon. Bread and cheese, along with a glass of wine—yes, that will be my dinner tonight.
I slice off some Jarlsberg swiss and a wedge of bread, then arrange them on a white china plate. Next I pour a half glass of sauvignon blanc. I bring them to my front deck and sit in the silence of darkness. The refreshing feel of the unusually cool night air and tastes of food and beverage embrace me with rich sensory pleasure.
This morning, I lay leisurely in bed pondering many things. In time, I rise and go to the kitchen to make a cup of Red Rose tea. My eyes land again on the barely diminished bread and again I want that to be my breakfast focus. I toast a thin slice and slather it with organic crunchy peanut butter that quickly melts. Then I walk out on the back deck to greet this new day.
I spend the rest of the morning working in the master bedroom of my new retirement home. I wonder: since it’s just the cats and I who live here, should it not be called the mistress bedroom? Well—um, maybe not, since the word mistress can conjure up a whole other avenue of meaning!) I scrub old grime from the outside sills of the two windows, then wash and hose down the screens. Next I clean the in-and-outside of the windows, screwing in new curtain rods. Then I hang freshly-washed, pristine-white lacy curtains from my previous home.
The view from each window looks out on lawn that needs mowing. Plus beautiful old trees that need nothing except deep appreciation for their present beauty and graceful passage through the decades. The windows frame each scene as a beautiful still-life painting. Those scenes that will subtly change with each new season, just as I will also, I suddenly realize.
I move my minimal furniture into a new configuration within the serene taupe walls. Balance and interface between the interior room and exterior views the windows so generously give is what I seek. I bring two green plants into my room, a primal urge to bring inside some outside’s rich beauty. On the bureau is where I place them. Yes, I love their addition. Then I gather up my tools—window spray, hammer, nail, Phillips head screwdriver, and dirty towels—and vacuum the rug and closet. Then I lean against the doorway to gaze at my morning’s endeavor. I smile and nod as I look slowly around for several minutes. This has been very satisfying work.
Shortly I sit on the bed; put on my sneakers; hug my kitten, Button; scratch my aloof cat, Hilary, under her neck; and start out on a long, brisk walk on the hilly, curvy, tree-canopied, country road I now live on.
Forty-five minutes later I return, do a little weeding as I work my way toward the back door, and realize how hungry I am. Once again, in the kitchen, I look first at that loaf of bread. Hmm…I spoon the rest of yesterday’s tuna fish salad onto a bed of spring mix, slice a tomato from the garden, and complete the plate with a scoop of cole slaw, then take my cup of hot tea to the table and enjoy every mouthful of my simple meal. When done, smiling as if about to engage in hugely sinful pleasure (which is exactly what I am going to do), I walk over to that loaf of bread, slice off a slender piece and pull open the fridge door to get out my raspberry jam, made locally with berries grown around the corner from my other home.
As I take small, supremely delicious bites of my bread and jam, I think about bread being the staff of life. Certainly this single loaf of homemade bread has been a primary nutrient of both my body and my soul since last night and will continue to be for the next several days. And I deeply appreciate, once again, that more and more—as the summer of my life begins to close out into my autumn—it is the simplest pleasures of life that profoundly fill me with joy.