Apron cladded, baker’s dust. Her hair the color of flour. Linoleum covered kitchen floor. Experienced hands, without thought of action, kneads the dough. Without interruption of conversation. Covered tins await their turn. The oven aroma fills the space. Soon there will be light rolls, as if resurrected from the stove, hot and fresh. Buttery, golden crowns: priceless. Homemade jelly and jam await a union. Or perhaps, the beekeeper’s sweet natural honey. They may not make the table, the temptation is grab one as soon as allowed. For they are in need of nothing for as always they were made with love.. The smell and the taste yet linger, and are not forgotten, nor is the baker.
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