The Litany of Leavening

image from hallswellsuper16.com. 

The Litany of Leavening

“There are people in the world so hungry that God

cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”

--Mahatma Ghandi.

Bread is my bitch,

              my staple, &

              my bane--for eons ago my love handles

                              became a gut loaf, & I must turn a deaf ear

                              to the haranguing data that informs me of its

                              harmful properties, for

              giving up bread for me is the equivalency for others

  of giving up smoking, alcohol, weed, chocolate, or hard drugs,

              making it my major addiction. 

I remember clearly the first time

I met a person who was gluton-intolerant, OMG,

my sadness was overwhelming for them, 

their depravation constituted tragedy,

they might as well have had diabetes, cancer, or leprosy. 

How many people know

        that Otto Rohwedder is the father

                       of sliced bread, that in 1912

                       he invented a machine that sliced bread,

& for those folks who felt this was a negative act

since bread tended to go stale faster after sliced, in 1928

                       he invented a bread wrapping machine,

          making him kind of the Linus Pauling of bread history. 

Part of the initiation of adulthood

           was to gain a appreciation for unleavened breads,

           after it became hip to eat the Mexican tortilla,

                                                          Middle Eastern pita,

                                                          Indian naan, chapati, or roti,

                                                          Jewish matzo,

or God help me the Native American fry bread

dripping in cinnamon & butter; which is a bit confusing

           because I don’t know if the flour they use is leavened or not. 

Bread scholars proudly point out

that as far back as Neolithic times

bread initiated a turning point in history,

               offering agriculture as a viable alternative

               to the hunting/gathering options, allowing larger

                              populations to congregate, & I find it

                              ironic that man moved from loving fermented

fruit buzzes to the fermentation of grains to make alcohol,

& simultaneously discovered that bread could be, 

                                                                might be,

                                                                should be leavened;

& further irony is infused because of

the Medieval notion that the rich felt

that white bread was their dominion,

leaving the dark grained breads for the poor,

& as you know, these days the dark grained breads 

grace the wealthy tables, & white bread 

is the fodder of the less privileged. 

My mother was a master baker,

                  & once a week was her Baking Day. 

                              As a family we would all rush home

                                              to greet that perfectly timed last loaf

                              as it came out of the oven. The smells

                   of flour, yeast, & baking bread, rival

          the overwhelming smell of frying bacon

as one of my favorite sense memories,

constituting what a real Home once meant,

                                                once was.

Mom would place the hot loaf

in the center of the table

on one of her beautiful wooden bread boards,

surrounded it with a pound of real butter

& several homemade jams & jellies.

                

                We would tear off huge steaming pieces,

                slather it with soft butter & sweet jam,

                & sit together as a family breaking bread

                laughing, smiling, chewing,

                               making butter/jelly mustaches,

                               talking with our mouthes full,

                               devouring the entire loaf in mere minutes,

in a frenzy, ravenous as starving dogs, 

the smells, tastes, & fellowship

                overpowering us,

                overwhelming us,

                mesmerizing & sustaining us.

Now that my mother is gone,

& only the memories of her Baking Day remain,

oh what I wouldn’t give

to come home just one more time

to perform the perfect Ritual of the Hot Loaf. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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