’Tis a wholly, holy, holi-day weekend

We have (unconfirmed) reports from the Better Half that flocks of robins and red-winged blackbirds have been sighted in the area. [Unconfirmed means she’s seen them and I haven’t.] We have personally observed what we believe are mallard ducks floating on open water at the pond north of the property. The driveway is about 45% clear of ice. Spring has finally arrived on Holy Saturday 2023.

In honor of the occasion, I’ve removed the yaktrax from my wet weather shoes. This weekend I’ll hang one of my two winter parkas back in the closet. Although some may see it differently, I believe I’ve done at least moderately well with my Lenten effort to forego complaining about the state of the world. After today all’s fair again but I’m noticing I am somewhat happier if I spend less time focused on what’s wrong and more time enjoying what’s right, but the numbers of the former so outweigh the latter that it’s hard.

If I have successfully resurrected the yeasts and bacteria in my sourdough starter, tomorrow I should have a bowl of risen dough that will be placed in a preheated oven and turned into a boule of bread. We have been neglecting our baking for some time now, attributable, we think, to a case of seasonal affective disorder, the winter nasties. We’re also planning on baking one of the loaves of Irish soda bread that didn’t get done around St, Patrick’s Day.

Irish soda bread

Photo by J. Harrington

If man does not live by bread alone, why does he cast so much of it upon the waters? Regardless of the answers, we hope that tomorrow our two loaves will be among the risen.

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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