Half recipe, straight French, two jacos (no starter this time)
Mixed 12:30pm
Molded 3pm
Baked 4:45 pm
Gave: to my long lost writer’s group
Some days have a mind of their own. I had planned on a quick trip to the beach while my dough was on its first rise, but I hadn’t imagined making my first attempt at St. Brigid’s crosses while there. It just felt right, though. The idea came in a flash and before I knew it I was gathering pine needles and plant material and tucking them into the beach bag alongside the shovel. I had a bit more than an hour before my dough needed me back home…
A solitary day at Hendry’s. The kids drew pictures in the sand and munched down a few more treats from Halloween. I fumbled over my fingers and prayed.
Today I learned of a colleague’s sorrow. A baby yet unborn, has already headed back to heaven. What sadness. So my fumbling with pine needles, and reeds from my yard, had a purpose–to honor this family with the making of a cross and the prayers that came along with it. I wanted just the doing of it to be a mark of hope and healing. I pray it was…
Saint Brigid’s crosses are unwieldy things. But the beach is a magical place and though my first two attempts were poor images of what they might be in an expert’s hand, I didn’t care–I just wanted to do, and to be. But I couldn’t stay too long; I had dough on the rise!
I started to collect the kids, but then noticed strands and strands of sea grass. I adjusted my brain, which holds my schedule, and figured the dough could just go on rising.
So I fashioned my third and final cross from seaweed. It was my best prayer yet, and when I finished, I floated it in the gentle waves before I pressed it in a book to send to my colleague later.
And now for the bread. It came out golden and delicious, despite the long first rise. I wish I could send that sweet young family this hot loaf of bread as well as the cross, but, it’s a bit far for bread to travel–from here to Indiana.
So, I’ll take it to my writer friends, who will devour it with glee.
Some days simply have a mind of their own and we are called to just follow along and forget the dough that’s on the rise…
The Woman and the Wheat 