My hands, arms are exhausted right now from a good jaunt of kneading; with a beloved bread maker at the ready I seldom put in this effort but today’s pitas went the old-fashioned way and I loved every moment of it – though I think I shall pay for the next few days. I wonder if I ought to be this sore – maybe I’m not kneading correctly (is there a right way? I never even thought to ask). It will be worth it, though. Yummy pitas and baba ganouj, homemade, working my muscles both aerobically and digestively. Thank the Divine for Moosewood.
I pondered my bus driver this afternoon as we took home the kiddoes from school. She has the skin and teeth of a lifetime smoker, talks of happy hour at the bar quite readily, listens to classic rock, wears a leather jacket with fringe hanging down, smokes like a chimney, exercises her horn a minimum of five times per journey, slams on the brakes, curses other drivers, mutters to herself throughout the whole ride. I wonder – does she use the horn so readily and the brakes so recklessly behind the wheel of her own car, or does the safety of the bright orange make her feel freedoms she wouldn’t otherwise? Is this who she is in her off hours?
And as I sit here, typing, smelling rising bread and roasting eggplant, I wonder if my co-workers know me. Do they know the one who writes furiously in little notebooks, composes in her head ceaselessly? The one who sings lustily, who gardens and recycles and composts, who bakes her own bread and makes her own jam and cheese and cans for the winter? The one who cooks with reckless abandon, owning her Italian heritage with every ounce of her being? The one who cries over the heartbreak of others when they call to tell her of their failing marriages, their lost jobs, their ill children? The one who delights in her daughter and laughs from the bottoms of her toes with her?
If so, how?
If not, why not?
And should they?