Perfume

I mix the batter of steaming milk from Sally's cows, honey from Fain's, a family beekeeping operation not too far down the road from my parents, spelt flour milled by me this morning, grown by farmers under vast Montana skies, and a spoonful of yeast.

I smell grasses and wildflowers, the fragrance rich and heady filles my bakery.  Because I get to be a part of this alchemy twice a week, for years now, my faith is made certain, and I know that somehow that batter of honey and grain and milk from Sally's cows, formerly milk from my own cow, will be transformed into bouncy, pliable dough and rich loaves of bread to be used by my customers and my family for sandwiches, toast, snacks, comfort.

A couple of verses from the Bible popped into my mind as I imagined the bees hovering around weedy flowers tucked here and there, gathering pollen and nectar.  One out of Psalm 81, "You would be fed with the finest of wheat; with honey from the rock I would satisfy you."  Another out of Psalm 147, "He grants peace to your borders and satisfies you with the finest of wheat."

For a few moments, I forgot my troubles, my senses remembering my fortune, the gift of milk and honey, the finest of wheat (and spelt, granddaddy to wheat, cultivated over 5000 years ago!) and I had to stop and give thanks.