Heart of the World

She's not much for recipes. The bowl sometimes invites her, and she oils it, cracks a duck egg or two, throws in a bit of stock or well water, maple syrup and leavening, and says to it: sit there and I'll be back with something for you.

"Something" might be a beet leaf, or an apple, or a spray of young mint -- once it was a whole handful of chives. Chopped and thrown in, the whatever might vanish under oats or rye, buckwheat flour, or crumbs from the last loaf, and then salt -- late, so as not to insult the yeast.

Last, she may tug the spelt barrel from beneath the counter, and dip a porcelain bowl into the cool brown powder five -- six -- seven times. She stirs the makings between heaps with a pair of chopsticks. Never quite the same thing twice! In summer she'll oil a crock pot and turn the lump in to bake; in winter, a Dutch oven. In either case, the secret is prop the lid onto a chopstick, letting a little steam out over time.

The end is not the prettiest bread you'll ever see, nor the best tasting, she'll admit. But slice it, add a little butter to it still hot, and sit, eating slowly, in a western window as the sun goes gold, then falls. Are you not now the grace at the red heart of the world?