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Begin with the biggest bowl you have,
let it be large enough to contain your whole week.
You will need to wrestle with angels.
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Begin in the place of knowing,
the place that venerates.
Summon stillness, kavannah.
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In the smallest nesting bowl,
proof the yeast in lukewarm water.
Remember that you are proof.
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Let the fragrance of yeast envelop you,
rain, wet earth, fecund.
Now, trust.
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Measure 7 or 8 cups of flour,
challah is not precise.
Notice the flour cloud.
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Make a well.
A deep well to contain the grief.
Pour the yeast water into the well.
/
Let it seep in.
Add 3 eggs and 3 tablespoons of oil.
Take off your rings.
/
Plunge.
Pound.
Let the dough silence your rage.
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Pour yourself into the challah,
filament and fractal
fingertip and phial.
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Now walk away.
Give it a few hours to grow.
Let it rise.
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When you return, let the growth surprise you.
Add raisins, golden and black.
Summon helpers to braid.
/
Take a tiny marble of dough,
set it apart
to recall loss, sadness.
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Braid as if this is your last act.
Round, double braid, single braid.
Trust completely, irrevocably, let go.
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After the braids have doubled in size,
entrust them to the oven
under a coat of egg wash.
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Let the aroma
permeate your village
with the smell of rest and kindness.
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Bring forth the challah
with both hands
Let the heat radiate.
/
Just as the poet unleashes the poem,
so will you clear a path
towards home.


Gorgeous. I love “remember that you are proof,” how making a well in the flour becomes a metaphor for so much more, the lines about removing a bit of dough to remember loss, and oh, oh, that last stanza!
the best ever