59/365 bread

My father was a baker, and made countless types of breads.  White bread, rye, pumpernickel, sourdough; you name it, he made it.  His giant hands would form the bread so evenly each time.  And the taste, oh, the taste -- better than anything I will ever taste again, I dare say.  He taught me how to like sardines on rye bread.  I miss him, and I miss his bread, too.
Throughout the years, bread has been a substantial part of the dinner table.  Maybe just a loaf of white, or a nice semolina with Italian food, or pumpernickel to slather with butter to go along with your salad.
Bread is holy in its way.
My dad worked seven days a week when he had his bakery, and said he figured God would forgive him for not going to church on Sundays, because he was making The Daily Bread.
I hve never made my own loaf of  bread, odd as thta may seem.  Now that my father is gone, I've lost my teacher, you might say.
Bread.  So rich in carbohydrates, it's the bane of all the dieters.  But how could you deny the body such sustanence, as rich as a piece of crusty and soft bread.

dad and me, 1981

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Suggestions for freewrites are always welcome. Visit Evie, with whom I freewrite, at the space between colors.