dogs | To Create...

The Reluctant Baker

But you don’t eat bread.

I do now. Thin. Whole wheat. Dave’s.

Do they have it?

I don’t know.

I’ll get some yeast and start making bread again.
I’ve been wanting to do that.

Yay.

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No toilet paper. No popcorn. No yeast.

You’re kidding?

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I’m going to make sourdough.

Really?

We need to make a starter.
I can use a bowl but we will need some jars.

I cleaned out the shelves
and the recycling just came.
I got rid of the jars.
I think I have a pickle jar that’s almost empty.

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I don’t think it’s working.

It’s cold in the house.
Beer bread is good, too.

I’m going to keep going.

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It smells sour.

I don’t smell anything.

You can’t smell this?

No.

Can you taste food?

I think so.

Let’s take your temperature just to be sure.

Okay,
but the starter doesn’t look
like the pictures I’ve seen online.

It’s good. I can smell it.

Okay.

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It’s not working.

Do you want me to try?

Sure.

Then you can bake the bread.

Okay.

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I emptied the pickle jar.
I put the starter in the jar
in the cabinet
near the stove.
It might be warmer up there.

Okay.

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It smells sour.

That’s how it’s supposed to smell.

But it smells like pickles.

It’ll be fine.

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Ooooooooo….looooook.

What?

It has a few bubbles!!!!!

Uh. Huh.

It’s working.
Do you want to see?

When I come downstairs.

Okay.

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It’s time to make bread!!!
I’m so excited.
When do you want to take over?

How about if you make the bread?

Okay.

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Benny grunts.

Okay, here is a recipe that calls for lots of stuff.
How did people use to make this without all this stuff?
I just know they didn’t have all these fancy tools
to make bread a long time ago….

Benny sighs.

OMG.
Look at the number of steps.
A loaf of sourdough is going to take days to make.
Well, at least I’m home with little else to do.

Benny whines.

Okay, go chase the squirrel.
I’m going to find something easier.
There has to be something that is more sensible.
I know there must be.
I’m not a baker.
This is Colorado and a high altitude.
My mother always said you must adjust the recipe.
How do I do that?
Days.
It’s going to take days.

Benny barks.

I’m coming.
Let’s go for a walk.
I need to make a plan.
We’re going for a walk!

Okay.

I’ll work on the bread when we get back.

Great.

“I’m going to make sourdough bread.”
What’s wrong with beer bread?
But noooooo,
it had to be sourdough.

What?

Nothing.
We’ll be back

Okay.

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Awww, look how fluffy the starter is.
I think it grew!!!!

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It’s really sticky.

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Pull and turn.
Pull and turn.
Pull and turn.
Pull and turn.
Set the timer for 30 minutes.
Repeat for FOUR hours?

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It’s soooo pretty.
You are such a pretty mound of flour and organisms.
Keep on going.
You can do this.
I know you can!

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Let rest 6-18 hours.
Place in fridge for at least 12 hours.
Then bake.
You silly little round of nourishment.

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Yes.
Release. Patience. Trust.
In the time of virus.

Author’s Note:

The challenge in our writing group was to write dialogue. I tried to keep exclusively dialogue to see what I could bring about in a minimum of words. When it came to Benny my dog I had to rely on stage directions. No too sure how to write his sounds. I’ll work on it.

One: Pongi
Relinquishing his steed
on the congested corner,
the gallant bus driver
gently raises you from the curbed street
to eye level.
“How did you get here?”

Footing it to the glass doors
Of the gas station,
he pumps Gus,
“Does this belong to you?”
“Naw,”
the faithful attendant counters,
plopping you into my garden.

From the timeworn kitchen
filled with breakfast bustling
my mom points through the sliding sash,
“Look. Under the tree. Go see.”

Reaching beneath the stunted pine,
The morning sun starting to kindle,
I lift you from the dusty shade,
“Where did you come from?”

Traipsing through the realm,
concealing you in my arms,
knocking on doors, but not too many,
I petition in a whisper almost to soft to hear,
“Does he belong to you?”
And the much anticipated answer,
“Nope.”

“Mommmmmmmmm!
He doesn’t belong to anybody!”

My mom, the seamstress,
Caressing soft, tan puppy paws,
“Like a dress I used to have…
Pongee. It was made of pongee.”
“How do you spell that?” I inquire.
“I don’t know.”
“P…o…n…g…i” I ordain.

Two: Wooster
You looked at me that morning
that moment
when time wouldn’t stop for us.
Those sweet, adoring eyes that once smiled, cajoled,
teased me into playing.
The clouded pools cleared.
Two deep black diamonds
penetrated my soul.
You sat so straight and quiet
searching me, then
you understood.
You knew.
It was time.

Sleepless,
I heard the first cricket promise of autumn
in that lonely night
before sunrise,
before birdsong,
they welcomed you,
comforting me.

August will always be
the first early crickets
before dawn
before the song,
comforting me.

Three: Bremen
Bremen smiles.
He actually smiles.
Oh, to smooch that cold, wet nose,
scratch those noble shoulders,
rest my cheek on that silken coat.
How could anyone hurt you?

Bremen dances.
Two partners concurring
For a dinner or a cookie or a treat.
The tango begins.
Huge paw plopping onto a lap.
Tender mouth prodding a hand to the prize.
Joyful circles spinning through the room.
How could anyone not feed you?

Bremen races.
What does it mean to play?
Not toys, but running.
Across the yard, up the stairs
Skidding across on the deck.
Just out of reach.
Try to catch me!
How could anyone tie you down?

Rescue.
A bewildering word for one not yet rescued.
An overwhelming word for the lonely.
Rescue.
An expectant word when sweet words are spoken.
A confident word when paperwork is finalized.
Rescue.
Bounding through the house,
A wagging-tail greeting.
Bounding up the stairs,
An inviting nod coaxing a cuddle.
Bounding through the yard,
the chase is on.

We thought we rescued you.

Author’s Note:
I wrote these poems during the Colorado Writing Project in the summer of 2009. We had to put Wooster to sleep several years earlier. If there ever was one, he was my soulmate. I knew I wanted to write something to remember him, but I wanted something special. It took several years to be able to write without tears blinding the page. It is such a joy to look lvoingly at all my pups and see what each brings to my life. Bremen is very different. He’s not long-haired and fluffy like Poni and Wooster. He was terribly abused, so he does a lot of cowering unlike the uncontolled joy and play of the others. But he’s one of the sweetest, smartest doggies that ever was. I am so blessed.