Chapter 8 - The Sourdough Loaf
Saturday morning in Lake Forest smelled like cinnamon, melted butter, and toasted pecans.
I stood at the kitchen island, wearing an apron covered in flour smudges, trying and failing to knead a batch of homemade sourdough bread. My technique was entirely unrefined, my flour-covered hands slipping against the dough, much to the quiet amusement of my five-year-old son, who sat on a high stool watching my every move with wide, critical eyes.
“Dad, you’re doing it all wrong,” Leo giggled, pointing a flour-dusted finger at the messy counter. “Mom says you have to fold it like a letter, not punch it like a bad guy.”
I chuckled, wiping my forehead with the back of my forearm, leaving a white streak of flour right across my nose.
“Oh yeah? Is that what Mom taught you?” I teased, stepping toward him with flour-coated hands.
Leo shrieked with laughter, sliding off the stool and scrambling across the hardwood floor toward the living room, shouting, “Mom! Save me! Dad’s turning into a ghost!”
Clara walked out of the hallway carrying a stack of clean linen, her long blue sundress flowing gracefully around her silhouette, her belly beautifully round and prominent. She smiled, her eyes lighting up with that fierce, radiant warmth that had guided me through the darkest storm of my life.
She caught Leo as he ran behind her, wrapping her arms around him and lifting him up with a soft groan of mock exhaustion.
“Hey, careful with my favorite architect,” Clara laughed, kissing the top of Leo’s head before setting him down gently. She walked over to the kitchen island, leaning against the marble counter beside me, looking down at the messy lump of dough.
“You know,” Clara murmured, resting her hand over mine, “when I first saw that stale piece of bread in Leo’s pocket a few weeks ago... I thought we were going to lose everything. I thought we were trapped in a nightmare that would never end.”
I stopped moving, turning my flour-dusted hands over to interlock my fingers tightly with hers.
“We didn't lose anything that mattered, Clara,” I said softly, looking deep into her eyes. “We just cut away the rot.”
May you like
Clara smiled, a bright, beautiful expression that chased away every lingering shadow of the past. She reached down, pinched a tiny ball of dough off the counter, and flicked it playfully right onto the tip of my nose.
“Come on, Mr. CEO,” she laughed, tying her own apron around her waist. “Let me show you how to bake bread the right way.”
