When a good friend announced that she was coming back into town for a visit, I didn’t expect her to come bearing gifts. She’s working on a small farm, mostly in their bakery. After some serious burns and slashes to fingers, she’s become quite the pro. This magical loaf of seeded sourdough came all the way from Eastern Pennsylvania to my doorstep.
We ate it with butter & stew. We toasted it with coffee for breakfast. We savored every. Last. Crumb. I miss the glorious process of bread baking. I miss being a baker. I miss early morning alone in cafés with the day’s freshest pot of coffee and a pastry straight from the oven.
I miss time.
I dogsat this weekend, marking the 1oth weekend in a row that I’ve been cramming my homework into far too limited hours with even littler time for recreational food-making. Which is why when Joe announced his birthday present, I was over the moon. An all-day Sunday workshop at a Muddy Fork, sharpening artisan bread skills, making pizza for lunch, and being sent home with a sourdough starter. It’s that time in the semester where moments like that to hold onto make everything else seem bearable.
Weekends 11 & 12 are equally busy… but tomorrow morning sends me off to a food symposium to present my first paper as a geographer-ish academic-ish thing. And doing hours & hours of homework on airplanes. Direct flights to tiny New Haven airport? Three connections. Six hours. Blah. So, everyone call & check in on Joe. He’s bacheloring this weekend.