There’s bread rising on my counter.
For those who know me, this used to be a common, multiple-times-a-week occurrence. I baked bread as regularly as breathing.
That all stopped a couple years ago. I honestly can’t remember when I last baked bread. A lot of things about my life kind of came to a halt in the last couple years. I shut down to minimum life support. I bathed, I read, I kept up on clients, and barely spoke to people.
But in the last month or so, I’ve felt like I’m slowly, slowly waking up. I’m working like someone who likes her job, I’m getting exercise, I’m keeping up the house the way I like it kept up.
And I’m starting to cook again. For a while there we were eating out a lot, bringing in a lot of takeout. Now, in the last couple days, I’ve actually felt like cooking for the first time in a long time. And yesterday I felt the need to revive my pour sourdough, to see whether Shelob had survived my neglect.
She had. So today I am baking a loaf of the bread that was the staple of my baking, the bread I can bake without pulling out a recipe, with a minimum of measuring. I am definitely rusty, but it’s rising.
I can’t say for certain that this will become the regular occurrence it was before. After so long of being so subfunctional I’m finding it hard to trust that this new energy of mine will last. I’m still not all the way back–my tolerance of crowds is low, and even the company of my dearest friends is something I can only take in small doses. Some days being responsible and working just feel like they’re going to kill me, like I can’t possibly do it another day. I worry that I’ll fall back into that morass.
But not today. Today I’m baking bread.