I baked bread.
It was therapeutic.
It felt good.
Fulfilling.
It was grey , and I had one of those urges to bake bread.
I have to say, my urge did wait patiently for us to run out of bread, so I can sort of justify the baking.
The pleasure of taking it from the oven, fresh, hot and with that scent that reminded me of home.
Once the bread cooled down, I gave it to my little one to hold it and feel its weight.
It was simply amazing how he grabbed the loaf and , to my surprise, smelled it instead of try to eat it. That came later.
I took the loaf and cut a slice.
I don’t know what sort of magic the noise of the blade cutting the bread crust has, but he was completely mesmerised.
I gave him the slice, and with his little hands took it as if it was something fragile. And, he surprised me again, he smelled it, look at the slice, and then, he cut the slice in half, and he started to eat it.
He did like it. No breadcrumbs were left….
Motherhood. And... 