Today I visited my daughter.

The bread maker.  I only have one.

That makes bread that is.

It is a relatively new skill and

I have been eyeing her offerings,

Watching as she has mixed and kneaded,

Nodding as she sighs over imperfections,

Smiling as I have tasted her baking,

 Knowing as only a bread maker knows  

That she is waiting for a sign of approval,

of entry into the sacred bread maker’s circle.

 

Now her Nana is a bread maker

Her bread is healthy and wholesome

Whole wheat.  

She taught me to be a bread maker

I thought nothing could compete…

Until today,

As I sat down to enjoy homemade crusty domed white

With a slab of butter…I told all at the table to

Be silent as I closed my eyes…almost a sacred moment.

Did she hold her breath?

I was transported in time to my Grandmother’s table

And I could almost hear her voice.

“A bit of blueberry jam would go well with that , dearie”

Yes Daughter, you have arrived. You may enter.