French Bread

French Bread Your index finger draws figure-eights in the dusting of flour on the counter top where you lean quite casually, watching as I make a loaf of French bread. Then, laughing a bit, you insert your powdery finger into my right ear. I’m startled... I was so very focused on assembling ingredients that I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, at least not enough to see your finger inching its way toward me. I laugh too, realizing the intimacy of your floured finger. Somehow, I don’t believe your interest is in my baking, but I proceed on to proofing the yeast in warm water, watching carefully for the always-shocking bloom’s suggestion of the possible, our palates fine-tuned to the perfume of earth and damp places. Thus begins the slow tango of dryness becoming wet, a touch of salt-taste, elements bound together by the slippery until there is inseparable oneness, deep warmth in the joining, the inevitable rising, swelling seeking relief. But not yet, oh no... First there must be a pause, a relaxation of the engorged, consummation delayed, then the pressure of my hands, pressing-on, pressing and shaping and pressing. We sip our wine, talk quietly, anticipating the inevitable increase, saying between us, “We’re ready for the final phase: the heat that binds, coalesces the disparate ingredients, yielding at last to the inevitable delectable finish.” Later, cooling as it always must, we can’t resist nibbling still-warm bits dipped in melted butter, feeding them to each other, transcending words, finding new ways of seeing one another. Written November 23, 2013 for Charlotte’s Scorchers.