I kneaded the dough, between my fingers at first, and eventually palm to palm as the flour whitened my hands. I felt it giving way to assertive wrists and succumbing to pressure-- growing in its value with every "thunk" on the wooden surface. Bread: the edible representation of tough love-- what appears cumbersome, almost violent in its making, comes out full, malleable, and desired by all. Last week, I baked the honey yeast loaf with hints of cardamom. Still warm from its makeshift charcoal oven, I concealed it in a satchel with a jar of jam in preparation for my unassuming traipse to the village square. There, in her little shop, mama Enni weighs out portions of sugar, nails, and other small scale goods for eager customers returning from the farm. Working sun up to sun
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