instructions

go to the grocery store after work. stare at the wall of bulk flours and remember the last time you were there. remember you bought spices. remember you felt grown up. notice that everyone around looks like someone you wish you did not know. wish everyone you knew was a different person. wish everyone you wish you did not know was actually there. mindlessly scoop flour into brown bags, forget to label them. pay too much money for a persimmon. walk home eating it, feel as if your mouth is full of fur.

decide you will bake bread. cover the counter with bags of flour. do not open a cook book. do not use measuring cups. pay too much attention to the music you play. pour one bag of flour into a big bowl. in another bowl, put yeast, hot water, and sugar. stare at it while the yeast tumbles and puffs to the top and realize that the fact that it is alive makes you uncomfortable. on the stove, melt butter. add milk, honey, eggs. add this to the flour. add more honey. remember you hate things that are sweet. stir and stir. stir until bob dylan stops singing from the stereo. open another bag of flour. add the yeast to the big bowl, wishing it was dead. open all the bags of flour. pour all of them into the bowl. beat the dough with your spoon and wonder why you are angry. wish you had added oats. look everywhere for oats, find instead bags and bags of frozen berries. find instead sunflower seeds. keep looking for oats until you want to tear down the kitchen. wonder why you are sad. add handfuls of sunflower seeds. feel the dough turning thick and elastic. start mixing it with your hands. stop when you hear something. turn to the stereo and listen. it is antony & the johnsons. close your eyes and turn your heart off. when it does not turn off, turn and yell at your bread dough. open your eyes. notice it looks like the faces of everyone you wish you did not know. remember why you are sad. think about eating it now. remember what arie said about kindness and baking. touch it as kindly as possible. lift it up like it is living. don't allow yourself to hear the song end. when the next one begins, put the dough on the counter. joni mitchell is singing her song about drinking a case of you. knead and knead the dough. whenever the line about being bitter and sweet comes, want somehow to ruin your bread. wish somehow for it to be bitter. feel how tough it is. think that it will be terrible. wonder if it will rise. wish that it won't. consider tossing it now. pick it up and go to the trash can. feel like crying, slam it back on the counter. knead until the counter feels like it swims. remember the counter in the house on felch street. feel like a child.

rub oil in a large bowl. take your dough, lay it in softly. turn it once so that its back glistens. cover the bowl with a towel. promise to trust it. beg for it to rise. let it swell like a belly. touch it and feel it collapse. know this is your favorite part of the baking. do it again: waiting, rising, swelling, collapsing. lift up the dough. feel how heavy it is. know it may taste terrible. put it into the oven, don't let yourself think about that.