My daily bread is sourdough.
My daily bread comes from a drawer, is drawn from a bag, but isn’t purchased.
My daily bread is made by Nancy.
Once a week or so, she takes the Ball jar of sourdough starter from the refrigerator. It comes to room temperature as the jar sets on the counter, faster if the weather is warm. The starter is mixed with flour and other simple ingredients in one of the bowls that first held flour a couple generations ago. The dough rests again and rises. Nancy dusts the counter with flour and dumps the lump out of the bowl.
She kneads it, folding and turning and folding and turning. I think she needs it, too, working the stress out of her heart, working the love into the bread dough. Back into the bowl for more rising, or into the round white dishes which have held casseroles for three decades or the bright red ceramic loaf pans from a son and daughter-in-law or the well-seasoned metal loaf pans.
The loaves rise, the oven heats, the bread bakes. Sometimes a razor blade slices the dough before baking. Sometimes the loaves are removed from the heat just long enough to be brushed with water and returned for a second sauna session. Eventually, the house fills with the blessing of the scent, the beeping timer calls us to worship.
But not to eat. The loaves must be adored, untouched, while bowls are washed and dried.
My daily bread isn’t purchased with money, but that doesn’t mean that there is no cost.
I eat it every morning, the top and bottom of an egg sandwich. I usually don’t think about the cost. I’m consumed with the day. But there is still daily bread. given to God, passed on to me.