My favourite days of the week are when I get to be in the park in the morning. Imagining myself doing what I’m now doing, I thought the hardest part would be getting out of bed. But I forgot that a city park on the cusp of spring, dusted with snow and bathed in a warm and promising light is nothing if not magical.
I mean, how could I begrudge the snow that marked the passage of a squirrel (my best guess!) or a bird that could be a pigeon if the hind toe weren’t (too my eye) a little too long? (Tracker friends, this is your cue to swoop in to the rescue!)
As a fledgling baker, I also did not fully comprehend how humbling it is to make bread. Just when you think you’ve got things figured out, the dough surprises you. This week I thought I knew, for example, what the spelt felt like when it was developed enough, so I stretched and folded each batch only about 250 times–that’s about half as much as I have in the past–because, it was sheeting beautifully, and well, I though it was enough.
Don’t get me wrong, it resulted in a tasty, crunchy and pleasantly sour bread. But Laurie definitely didn’t have to worry about the loaves getting crushed in her boxes! As with that snowfall when it should be spring, it is these little reminders that bridge disappointment and opportunity that get me up in the morning.