First of all, the nature of yeast is confounding.  Animal?  Vegetable?  Sea monkey?  We didn’t do much real baking at our house, so the yeast packets were written in Aramaic.  This should’ve been the first indicator of death, but who thinks about little grains of stinky sand as being alive in the first place?  Even if the leavening was hale and hearty, I worried about the exact temperature of lukewarm.  FYI, there is no ‘lukewarm’ indicator on a baby thermometer, which was older than me and probably didn’t work anyway.  Proofing?  Strange little verb.  Chances are, I either cooked the rascals before they could start farting into my dough, or froze their non-existent nuts off.

Since the yeast was probably DOA, there was little rising and no real ‘punching down’ to be done.  Kneading was a fun activity but I had no idea what should be happening or what to look for.  No matter what I tried, every attempt came out like a lump of dysmorphic building material.  Even the frozen dumbshit-proof Rhodes bread would break any plate or knife unlucky enough to wander into its gravitational pull.  I was panne morte.  Bread Dead.

And then I was given a new bible: Artisan Breads in 5 Minutes a Day.

My pal Seana promised success.  No matter how clearly I cataloged my failures, she was positive I could do this.  I finally agreed, assuring her that I’d still love her.  Well… once I got over the abject despair, at any rate.

So I read the first few chapters, invested in some tools (a good baking stone, pizza peel, scraper, oven thermometer), along with some fresh flour and yeast.  It didn’t all make sense in my head, but I stopped asking questions about how and why and simply followed the steps.  About an hour later, I had a crackly golden orb of deliciousness resting on my cooling rack.  I checked every few minutes until it was cool enough to handle; I couldn’t wait to cut into the damned thing.  Sure enough, the crust had that light cracker-snappy feel.  A little chip even flung up into my eye just like the real baguettes from Grand Central!!  The crumb (inside stuff) was lush — if a bit more dense than I prefer.  This was delicious and sandwich-ready, but I like the big air pockets with a slightly more toothsome feel.  Out of nowhere comes this wise old bread voice saying, “the dough should be wetter next time.”  I felt like the Scarecrow when he finally got that stupid diploma.  ‘As the bread bakes, trapped water turns to steam and generates pockets with volume equal to the square root of an isosceles triangle!’  Eureka!!  Wetter dough!  I learned that from the book!!

I’ve successfully baked up a fresh loaf every couple of days, all from that first batch I made.  And I started a new — wetter — batch that I’ll try out tonight.  I’ll reach into the bucket in my fridge, pull out a gooey handful, make some balloon animal shape, rest it for about 40 minutes, put it in the oven, and will have fresh homemade bread half an hour later.  Yes, it’s ridiculous, but I can’t explain how freakin’ gratifying it is.  I made BREAD!  I conquered my culinary nemesis.  Every day I draw pretty pictures using state-of-the-art software and decode the Internet genome and make technology quiver and cry at my feet, but today I made BREAD.

I am Woman.  Hear me mother-effin roar!

It stares back, will.
It smiles at you there, wild
your star is too
liquid and ferocious to
do any good.
Its feverful growl seeps
and devours the
hard question of me.

Patient will.
In your business of
bleeding
and scorching
down my mountain side
eating everything in your
path and wake, cutting
great swaths in my greenness.

So patient, will
and persistent, green.

It seemed
important
[necessary that it remain impossible]
cellular, genetic

And I
relucted
recanted
resisted
resigned
reveled

And he
relied on
lied
was lied to
forgave
crumbled

So we
danced through hell
made a mess
tried to excuse
barely survived

While she
held on for dear life
won

Rowdy boosters spill cola, rend their clothes,
shout in mysterious licorice tongues for this
unspeakable congress with the
sacred slugger

The pitcher wears an emerald snake
around her arm
she shakes off a sign or two
ignoring first the locusts, then
the burning bush
opting for the inside curve

Jesus mutters something pithy
to the squatter, blessing and
assuring him that his services
won’t be needed, as
this one’s going outta the park

But, caught in Magdalene’s wind-up
her shiver, her twist, her magical shibboleth
scored by tiny brass ankle bells singing
fire into his brain
he swings…

…high and inside

==========

Originally published in The Cortland Review, Issue 4

we trade smiles

that flickering fixture grin that we use
on strangers and
underlings; the one that says
beastly weather, please
don’t bother me

having sprayed my circle with
dialog repellent
up to my nose in
newspaper or novel
it’s inconceivable that
she’s talking to me
but unnerving to think otherwise

you can see she was pretty
once, for about five years
she’s passed that by another decade,
but still taunts her hair to the
same anti-Newtonian physics
Her lover was a bum, her
husband was the same and
the same
nothingness spurted from each and
found her purchase

Stars of rain and headlight
oscillate on the scratched Plexiglas.
The passing of each car
spotlighting her story
After the thread of twenty minutes
played out slow as existence
I watched myself get on the bus
in twenty years.

Beastly weather.
Where’s my horoscope.

or did you wander in
to find me at the piano, still
wishing I could play
and stirring a sweaty glass;
bruised gin duking it out with the
index finger gestapo
attempting tragic

Maybe you googled me
after long not

did you hear me mention you in
that way we do
of something so important but
long not

in that way we do
of something so core to who we are
after long not
and so far from where we are

but maybe you didn’t stop.
Maybe I struck no chord at all, sour
or otherwise, as I indulged the
recall.  As I honored the desperate twinge
of a gone limb, still so sure of
its own existence; made welcome
the insatiable tickle that leads to madness.

Maybe it’s still winter with you, and
you don’t expect to see the sideshow of me
for some time to come, if ever.
The barker lets you leave in favor of the
easier mark, sniffing for blood on the wind.

There was the lie I told about my beauty
and how I held the lie up to myself
in the folded mirror like a swath, a bangle
for your perceived need and mine wounded
redemption spinning out a skein of strenuous
black calligraphy, oceanesque in
thick forgiveness

Then, of course, I covet. And I kill.
Covet the wonder reeling as delicate as
tiny spindles of branches, hard
as unrequited, soft as a mouth. I kill
reason and sense. Have buried them
with no remorse. Kissed their picture and
crossed myself, your myrrh on my fingertips.

It usually
    looks at me, quietly
    snores
    waits for a false move
    sulks, uncomfortable, like a
    late party guest
    clasps its hands behind
    pretends to be interested
    runs fingers over dusty shelves
    helps itself to a drink
    answers my phone
    opens my mail

Sometimes it
    becomes irritable
    demands free range cordon bleu
    wanders around ’til
    four in the morning
    changes stations, humming
    too much like high-tension power
    holds a knife to my throat, halfheartedly,
    rolling it’s eyes and sweating, only to
    forget why in the first place

I
    drive it around, trying
    to lull it to sleep.
    think it’s rather odd
    wonder about my health
    slip it a mickey
    try to treasure it as best I can
    wait for you to come get it

I have something of yours.
It signs my name and asks for you
and three hundred dollars and a
helicopter.