The speaker describes a woman who bakes by feel rather than recipe. She oils a bowl, adds eggs, stock or water, maple syrup, then whatever is nearby—beet leaf, apple, mint, chives—along with grains, flour, salt, and spelt. Nothing is measured, and each loaf comes out different. In summer she bakes in a crock pot, in winter a Dutch oven, always leaving the lid slightly open so steam escapes. The speaker admits the bread isn’t the best-looking or best-tasting. But sliced warm with butter, eaten slowly by a western window while the sun sets, it becomes something more. The mood is calm, homely, almost sacred. The closing question suggests that this simple, imperfect act puts the eater in touch with the pulsing center of life—grace found in ordinary making and savoring.
Heart of the World — Summary
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?