Back to Issue Four

Bread by Robbi Nester

Bread

       for Jeremy Nester

I’ve never understood the multitude who relish

Wonder Bread—no texture and no taste.

It turns to paste in a single bite. Maybe they’ve

never had the pleasure of a crisp batard, each slice

packed with chunks of roasted garlic, olives, and

rosemary, the tang of coarse salt on the tongue.

But better still, to bake the bread oneself, to

set a metal bowl in a warm oven, let it breathe.

True, I’ve never sown or winnowed grain or ground

it, or even coaxed wild yeast to grow on dried fruit

in a jar, just emptied pre-packaged envelopes

into warm water, mixed this with the flour

and the salt. Still, I’ve used my fists to knead it

to a ball, shaped it, watched it rise, savored

the smell of home, a product that can’t be

packaged in a plastic bag. Bakery loaves can’t

fill the house with memories of braiding

challah with my son when he was small,

the way he’d hollow out the loaf with one swipe

of his small hands, mouth full of bread. A loaf

is more than scaffolding for peanut butter

sandwiches, a way to sop up gravy on the plate.

It’s got to have a bite, remind us of the Earth,

even if we’ve never seen a field of wheat, must

taste of family and of love. When we sit down

to eat a meal I’ve made, my son still hollows out

the loaf. We laugh, bread a bond between us.