Jack was an expert at it. He took classes and taught classes. Since he always did everything in a A big way, he had top Quality products: Bread pans of Every variety, Scraping tools, a Cadillac of a Mixer, seeds, and grains, he had it all. Jack made the bread, and my role was To clean up, a job he detested; but We both loved to butter a slice hot Out of the oven and pop it into Our mouths. A couple of times Jack taught me to Make a loaf, but he was always Instructing me as I worked. Today I vowed to try it on my own. I had almost thrown Jack's high Gluten bread flour away since it is Over two years old, but I decided to Take a chance on it. I found Jack's recipe that he had printed Out for one of his classes, and followed It to the letter: Disolve the yeast, Knead the dough, (not too sticky or stiff) Let it rise, punch it down, rise again, Bake it in a greased pan. As I worked I just pictured Jack looking Over my shoulder, smiling at me, Encouraging me along. I remembered to slam the soft, smooth Mass on the counter as I watched him do. And stashed in the cupboard where it had been Waiting all these months, I found the towel he Always used to cover the pans. I made an extra teeny loaf so I could sample It hot out of the oven, and I inserted a thermometer To make sure it reached 200 degrees. Oh, the glorious familiar smell! The tiny loaf was perfect, the large one, A bit overdone, But it was okay for my first try. As Jack liked to say, "It's close enough for Army work." As I did my part cleaning up, I nursed a pang in my Heart. I wished that Jack had been here to do His part too. |
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Dorothy Kalb Hsu Seitzinger
Writing poetry has helped me process and express my sorrows and joys, my concerns and blessings. "Life is hard, but God is good!" Archives
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