And after Valentine’s comes....

For those of you who can’t wait to see our new legislative and congressional districts, they’re here! For reasons neither understood, nor yet researched, our state senate district number changed from 32 to 28. It’s not clear whether the changes, which mostly appear to be minor, will advantage incumbents or challengers.

Next Monday is a federal holiday that started out as Washington’s birthday and has morphed over time and varies by state. Minnesota celebrates it as “Washington's and Lincoln's Birthday.” I have a high  degree of indifference since there  are almost as many presidents that  probably shouldn’t be honored [lookin’ at you, #45] as should be in addition to Washington and Lincoln [lookin’ at you JFK]. Instead of next Monday, our focus is now on St. Patrick’s Day, about a month away. Between now and then we’ll note the Better Half’s birthday, the start of daylight savings time, Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday and the dogs’ annual trip to the vet’s.

rustic artisan sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

In anticipation of St. Patrick’s Day, we’re trying a new [for us] bread recipe. We’re blending Irish flour with our usual rustic sourdough makings, replacing 20% of the all purpose and bread flours with Irish flour. We’ll report back in a day or two about how it turned out and how we like it. We may then try a combination of kernza and Irish flours with the standard mix.

We’re heartened more and more as the  forsythia stems show more and more flowers and greening. It’s been a long, cold, too dreary, winter. It’s now less than two weeks until the start of meteorological spring, but we all know that seasons are organic, not mathematic nor mechanic. The longer it takes for real spring to arrive, the more we’ll [at least most of us] welcome her.

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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