It starts differently. If you bake well in the sun at dawn, after breakfast you can come across a flyer in your office from a play you haven't even been to, Pantagruel's Sister-in-law, directed by Purcărete: on a table, a pitoi with sex uncertain, coarsely sliced ​​in a crouching position with a glass of red wine by his side.The decision to bake bread then comes naturally, it has to. You learned during the pandemic. Usually, mom also sends you a sandwich, made with her own hands, so you don't starve, but now she forgot. Immediately, a memory worthy of passing clean emerges.We were going in the afternoon, before it got dark. One day milk, one day bread. Of all the ones we've tried, none compare to the shower - the overflowing core. The brown velvet bag, brown like the slightly burnt bark, with a zipper and a side pocket with a red edge over the gold thread material - a sign that the money would have been under it, if it hadn't been torn at the bottom -, had date cores past. I was leaving with her, across the street from the kindergarten. It was my favorite activity, the innocent pleasure at seven, precisely because I could pass by again without entering the building of unconsoled passions, where before I would have gone only accompanied, that is, held by the hand, to the corner where the street began to go down Now we were moving forward in a gaiety, pushed from behind not by grandma's steps, hurrying to work when my mother was already teaching her first lesson, but by the promise of the smell that was already rising along the entire route, across the yard and the sidewalk, from the baker's grandmother.It's enough to scratch a little the crust deposited with the years, the crust and the gloss, the overlapping mantles, it's like after a dream where you spotted a piece of the puzzle, and if you pull on it everything connects, nothing was lost and a throbbing, open wound.Filling the time with the other children, while we waited for the bread to bake: elastic up to the hips, pheasant, sotron, to hide and seek in the yard of the same kindergarten, like going back in time. And when the doors of the bakery swung wide open, we would stop whatever game we were in the middle of and walk to the window, raffia nets and bags fluttering.It was still state-owned. We crammed our bottoms into two thick pipes—they came out of the ground like wire fence trunks, as if we were meant to sit on them in an open-air waiting room with slats on the floor. I was waiting for the moment when the mobile counter in the window would be pulled in and a breast of a woman-in-a-white-apron-with-arms-stretching-would appear, ready to serve us. Until then, I was telling you, you wonder what, and the best breads (I was told) slipped through the back door, under the hand, over the hand, to those with the nostalgia of communist tails. When at last the white slats were opened, I could see over the woman's bare shoulder the mouth of the oven worn out as if from the tortures of pretending, then, grabbing four lei with his left arm that was sweating flour, and with the other the matahala lost in the steam, he threw the hot bread at me and ruddy, freshly shoveled with forceps, straight into the eager bag. By the time I got home, I ate half of it. I was left with all that smell-imbibed in my brain, with the tenderness of the shower, the warmth.Now you make bread in the evening. After a few attempts, here you are at the right option. Leave the composition more watery, don't knead, just mix with the spatula, six cups of flour and three cups of warm water - the first two with the dissolved yeast, the last one with the salt in it -, follow the hypnotic circular movements, leave to ferment in the pot three hours with the towel on top, then in the yena dish until the oven heats up. Cover it with aluminum foil, put it in the middle, where it will stay for half an hour and another quarter without the lid, to redden. The secret is to have a good night when you take it out.That's how it is when you forget to leaven the yeast. It swells as if under an influx of blood, a budding pus, spills out of the vessel. You put it in quickly. It dawns on you that the dream is also made of dough, yesterday's days baked in sleep, to feed the morning's writing. Or, like a fairy tale, the pandemic has already passed and the forces of good won, they had no choice, it was another lesson from which we learned nothing, except to work (from) home like our grandparents, to make bread like them.You take it out, it's perfectly round, with cratered areas where you sprinkled the flour. By the time you cut off the thicker, inaugural corner, pick it up, for the Fakebook photo, you feel like you've got your hands on the unseen face of the moon. What, will one wake up to comment, the moon is a bread? With butter and olives. And a mouthful of wine, because it must be celebrated. You could live with that. Then look into the attic like the prisoners, say: it was full again. Laying your head on the pillowcase with her hissing, brown. Dive into a fluffy bread.Of all, a nocturnal tab will remain:A man's well-done baked pita, the smell is intoxicating, I climb on him, sniff his chest, take in the pectorals, first the right side, cut with a serrated blade, I give it ready, the divine taste, of bread and wine, it looks like an Amazon's body , with a missing breast that I'm owning it because I've always wanted a more rounded chest, like a man's that you want to jump on, to climb on - let's see, does it connect to me, is it attached, is it grafted? –, he doesn't wake up, I go down, I tear off pieces, loaves of bread, and he's sleeping on his back with his right hand under his head, who knows who he's dreaming of?

#love #healing #stories #passion