Yesterday I made bread for the for the first time in ages. I’d forgotten the feel of the dough in my hands, its weight, its soft stretch, its sweet thick smell. It was like coming home.
It was the first time I made bread as a mother, and while I kneaded I talked to my daughter, watching me intently from her chair. I told her that one day soon we could do it together; that she could sink her curious fingers in and squish and squash and squeeze; that she could bring her palms down and bang the drum of dough as loud and long as she liked.
Today, we took a nap together in the afternoon, and as we drifted off to sleep I thought how her arms smelt just like dough. Maybe she couldn’t wait for ‘one day soon’ and crept into the kitchen when I wasn’t looking to make her very first loaf.