This is soda bread. Made with my very own hands. The secret is using yoghurt (or buttermilk) not yeast.
It must be consumed soon after its emergence from the oven so that the pleasure of its creation holds on a continuous and rising plane until the eating.
This is a poem by Maya Stein.
I first read it on Patti Digh’s blog a couple of years ago. And again, last night, in Patti’s book Creative is a Verb. I hope that it might bring to you a memory of hands sticky with dough as other apparently more important things call for your attention.
I should be upstairs with the others, drumming up ways
to heal the world, save the animals, pray for water
in a far-off continent, devote the remainders of my days
to a catalog of restorations. But this morning, it was the matter
of scones that drew my gaze, and my feet remained
planted in the kitchen. One must never ignore the instinct
to create, is what I told myself, and soon the counter was stained
with flour, my hands sticky with dough, the house inked
with the smell of blueberry possibility, and I knew I was not wrong.
This was my prayer, my act of healing, my offering, my song.