February 7th, 2013
|04:01 pm - When my mother baked bread|
WHEN MY MOTHER BAKED BREAD
My mother baked bread from scratch
My brother and I would sit down by the stove and
wait, wait and wait, and wait
until all was said and done
and several loaves emerged from the wood oven
filling tightly the top of a kitchen table
(when you make bread from scratch you tend to go big)
The whole house would smell like Heavens
and Elysium and Nirvana all rolled into one
My brother and I would relish their golden crust
break a loaf slowly while still hot
spread on it some butter (fresh from the country)
sprinkle some salt and
feast, feast and feast, and feast
until our tummies began to hurt
At that time I did not have many thoughts
about heavens or nirvana
I surely did not know they have scents
of the bread freshly baked by my mother
It was just her birthday anniversary.
She moved on two years ago. I miss you mom.
She was 94 when she moved on; about 92 in these photos.
|Date:||February 7th, 2013 11:28 pm (UTC)|| |
Hi, Stefan! Amazing and beautiful woman, your mother. And very moving poem about bread. Thank you for sharing!
What a lovely memory--I can smell the bread ♥
And how beautiful your mother is in these photos.
What a lovely tribute to your mother. Such a kind and gentle face she has. And the eyes . . . all-knowing.