Hot tea, milk, steamed eggs, sourdough rye toast, honey, cream cheese. A morning campfire, orange flames, blue tinge, smoke curling.
A primordial forest, old growth hemlock, Douglas Fir. A chipmunk twirling and gnawing at fir cones like a corn cobs with butter. Draped moss, nursery logs, mushrooms, nettles and yellow dock near the wetland. Sunlight streaming in through narrow bands, almost singing, a raven’s low wings and throaty call like a stonekir plunked into a well. Voices in German, Russian and Japanese, pots and pans clanking, water running, children’s squeals and cries, snatches of English as walkers go by. Low camp chairs, a fold-out table between us. He tends the fire, moving a log this way and that, then another, burning the end of his poking stick so he can blow the smoke off into the wind and watch how it make its way through the strands of shadow and light. Listening to me go on... and on... about the history of English bread baking, the mysteries of yeast, the problems of modern industrial breads, gut flora, sourdough, top yeast brewing, clay ovens, growing conditions of flour….
Nodding attentive, adding a thoughtful question, or a story of his own, seemingly almost, but he is a trained actor, as excited, obsessed and fascinated as I am. “It’s just what you’re into right now.” he says. But he’s used to me, he even loves me, so I feel ok, besides here we are together sharing breakfast, eating bread, such good companions.
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