I got up at 3am, There had been explosions all through the night so sleep had not been possible. Each blast a thump in my body and mind, hammering each cell, demanding submission. But I did not relent. My dough was rising, that I knew and it was my job to make sure the city was fed.
In my bakehouse, I washed my hands, put on my apron, wiped the table, all part of my daily preparation. I removed the cloth that was cloaking the dough and smiled when I saw its smooth surface, waiting to be worked.
I dipped in my hand and scooped the dough onto the table where it plopped down into its own preferred shape, free and easy. Taking a small tool, I began to cut into that silky smoothness, separating each portion of dough until I had divided the whole batch.
Scattering some flour on my table I began to work the portions of dough, taking each one under my hand, telling it my concerns and prayers as I worked. First for my neighbours, this building this street, then for the next street, the square, the other buildings, houses, shops, offices: each portion remembering faces and places all over the city. My family, my friends, other workers, those known and unknown, representing the crowded human diversity of this much loved place.
About half way through I paused as a large explosion rocked the bakehouse, flour rose in a cloud around me, ash fell from the chimney flue, baking tins rattled and I coughed. I put the first loaves in the oven, desperate to be sure that some would be baked at least.
I returned to the table, scattered some more flour, braced myself as another explosion came, and considered the other half of the pile of dough. And then I began to work it, the same as the first batch, each portion a prayer. One for each of the invading army, for the families waiting for their return, for their neighbourhoods, their towns and villages. I worked slowly and methodically through the dough, each portion the same as the previous one, for friend and enemy alike.
When the first batch of loaves was ready I retrieved them from the oven and filled it again with the second batch. The golden crisp crusts of the loaves, marked with a cross cut through to the heart of the loaf, ready to feed others. As I had worked the dawn had come unseen by me, sneaking across the sky from the east, from where the explosions still reverberated. I piled the loaves into baskets and waited for the door bell to ring.
Sure enough, within a few minutes there was the sound of feet on the steps and the excited squeal of the bell. I passed the baskets of loaves into the eager hands who ran with them to their cycles and wobbled off down the lanes of the city. My loaves were off to do their day’s work. A crow on the wall eyed me, head on one side and I tossed it an unwanted crust. Pleased with the gift,it soared off to the top of the building opposite to enjoy its reward and keep an eye on the city.
I went back inside and opened the tub of flour. Looking inside to see how much was left, I began to scoop out the flour needed for tomorrow’s loaves; forty litres. I added the yeast, worked it once and left it to rise, certain it would do its unseen work.
Janet Lees: 02.03.2022, in Longdendale.
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