Gotta love poetry class...

A Feminist Looks At Baking

The sweet yeasty aroma
has been singing their song
long before I pull the loaves
from my oven.
A simple process to create
something so sublime.

First wake the yeast
with sugar and warm water.
Then tumble in flour and salt.
Dough blooms joyfully
under deliberate hands,
becoming soft and smooth.

After the first and second rise,
the dough is stretched and shaped
and placed into the hot oven
where the yeast will take one last valiant breath
before finally succumbing to the heat.

Baking is a lost art.
If not lost than losing.
Knowledge swept away to an undisclosed location.
Strangled in the night
along with homemade pickles and
the family farm.

Kitchen bound women in the forties and fifties
may have seen their
very freedom presenting itself
with the advent of sliced, white bread.
And I can't blame them.
I would have skipped right alongside them
to the nearest Piggly-Wiggly,
tossed my apron string oppression into the air
and sang

"Hallelujah!"

The simple act of baking
is so weighted with meaning.
The bread, a fragrant melody,
a creation of crumb and crust
with the taste of a thousand harvests.

No one knew what they might give up by forgetting.