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Oh this poem is just a slice of heaven. Its so particular yet somehow, at least for me, speaks of other grandfathers and grandmothers, parents, and other loving figures who do their work quietly.

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A warm slice with sweet butter.

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In 1969 I met my to be husband. We went to buy a book about bread baking. I would bake bread, I promised. For 54 years I have made our bread. When my hands started to hurt from kneading, I relented, I bought a dough hook stand

Machine on sale for $99! Relief. This poem knows the really real of bread baking. As a little girl my father would walk to the neighborhood bakery to buy us fresh rolls and bread and goodies. I guess my bread baking was meant to be. Try it one day, you will like it very much!

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I did it for a while. The kitchen isn't my natural habitat. I don't feel much at home there. But I delight in your joy in baking (and in your RELIEF!). I believe there's a poem hiding in these memories.

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I always feel like baking our bread or making any food actually is an act of sacrament - I make with my hands what will become part of my loved ones. Thank you Phyllis!

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Thank you for sharing that perspective, Katharina. It helps me.

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