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I Nuzzled My Head Closer To The Scratchy Grey Wool Of My

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I nuzzled my head closer to the scratchy grey wool of my dad’s sweater. Smaller shoulders under stronger ones; a posture I grew to become acutely aware of. His shoulders: large enough to bear the heavy burdens that all dads must carry – specifically the weight of a daughter. Not that I was unwanted. No, my weight came from the enormous amount of his love that I had consumed. His love for me, his concern for me…vested into my life in the way only a daughter can demand from her father. My breath caught in my throat as I breathed in the smell of antiseptic, pine, and bread. One more breath in and out. I wished I could stay right where I was: perfectly content, home. But time does not stop, even for moments so pure they feel as timeless as the…show more content…
My dad pulled out two aprons. His, long and white like a scientist’s coat. Mine, made by my grandmother out of an old Rose brand flour sack. My dad slipped the loop over my pig tails and tied the back for me, my arms held out like a scarecrow in a field. My dad was as comfortable in the kitchen as he was in the Emergency Room. He commands respect and quick obedience: gentle but firm. With an ease of practice and experience, my dad brought out all of the ingredients for the caramel roll dough: wheat flour, white flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, salt, water, and yeast. He narrated as he went along, sprinkling our conversations with little tips and tidbits he had picked up from his mother or from Rosey Levy Beranbaum’s “The Bread Bible”. After the milk had been scalded and cooled to the proper temperature, my dad measured out just under one tablespoon of yeast. The yeast lives in a brown Red Star Yeast jar. I tried to screw the cap back onto the cold jar (the yeast stays in the freezer to maintain maximum rising potential). My shoulders not yet strong enough to tighten the lid, I lifted up my offering of yeast to my dad. With one deft turn, he shut the jar of yeast…preserving the funny little tubes for the next batch of bread. I spread the yeast over the surface of the milk, and then waited. My eyes, the same color as my dad’s, watched as the yeast began to turn frothy. My dad explained how the yeast enjoys to gobble up sugar in order to grow, but that salt,
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