Velvet

Wipe back of wrist against my slick brow,
pat floury hands against my backside.
Step back from whirring stand mixer;
various flours and powders shudder and spin, 
plumes of fine ground grains gain wings, 
airborne.

I've decided to challenge myself
to bake a double batch of seeded mini breads. 
(This time, no anatomical bits shall grace the tops.)

I'm post-sponge creation, 
staring down a pallid mousse.
With an exhale, I celebrate navigating
past the harrowing emulsification 
of psyllium and flax meal with water,
which I've learned to do with the assistance 
of a high-powered stick blender, 
treating the concoction like the concrete that it is.

Dough hook pokes and curls into a dry mixture
and before I can say:
"There's no way this will become a 'moist dough'"
I force a 'Trust The Process' mantra my head.

At last, timer dings; recipe author vindicated.
A supple taffy-like mound oozes
from mixing bowl to silicone kneading mat
like an American green tree frog 
sliding down a window pane.

I knead the moist round over a field of tapioca dust.
Already, the pile feels warm, soft, cozy.
I drag the heels of my palms across the flocked surface
and I recall with a pang of clarity
— though many years removed from this moment —
the impossible softness of my newborn's forearms.

In 2X-ing my batch, 
I've doubled my labor, 
but quadrupled the logistics.
I triple-check my sightlines 
as I visually slice my twin dough balls 
into smaller wedges, proto rolls.

I cover the exposed centers 
of each wobbly Trivial Pursuit-shaped piece
with outreached arms; wings made from their lateral edges 
drawn over and closed.
Taut, enveloping, the outer skin seals 
and heals the wounds from my bench scraper.
A deep self-curing hug, 
one to make a yoga instructor proud.

Weigh, cut, weigh again, cut some more. 
I aim for one hundred twenty-five grams of mass
but somehow each bun-to-be 
is fickle, fleeting, feral.

My scale plummets from 167g to 109g then back to 145g;
little nubs stolen from neighboring lumps 
bear the scars of my incisions.

My attempts to balance 
sixteen huddled masses 
into identical spheres 
proves less than attainable.

Alas, the free-spinning digits 
of the oven's clock taunt me, 
reminding me my cadence has slowed, 
my tasks must press forward, 
away from the pursuit of precision
instead prodding me to plunge into the next step.

I pour seeds into a glass bowl
in a sepia-hued rainbow:
pip-shaped bronze flax seeds gleam
sink through matte sprouted sunflower
surf atop a sea of stone grey-blue poppies
blonde sesames, which shine like fingernails, 
seep through the larger items, 
buoyant yet too small
to hold their own in the crags of relative giants.

Perfectionistic tendencies resurface:
I swirl 
and swirl 
and swirl and swirl
attempting to get the perfect balance.

But of course life is not like this. 
The poppies will fall like stones to the bottom.
The sunflower seeds will pop to the surface
like over-eager khaki kick boards.

The water beckons; 
waves of filtered liquid
fill my laboratory-grade plastic weigh boat.

Wielding its beechwood handle in one palm,
I dip the silicone threads of my pastry brush 
into the vessel,
wetting them with just enough water
before grazing the bristles like a whisper 
along the tender epidermis 
of first roly-poly I sweep out from under proofing towel.

The perky globe of sourdough
takes well to a sponge bath,
responsive, it yields under the pressure 
yet bounces back, unperturbed. 

Once primed, surface slick and waiting
I sprinkle a heavy spoonful of seeds atop
before placing the orb 
in a curved plate with more mixture.
I send the ball into a tailspin 
tossing about with centrifugal force
as I coat it with nature's sequins.

I place the first birdseed mirrorball
on parchment-lined sheet pan;
fifteen more to go.

I reach out, with care, to
place another smooth sphere
—velvet flocked, so delicate, pleasingly heavy—
gently in my open hand.

An intimacy of raw dough:
already plumping, alive, 
it gives and grows at my touch.
I blush involuntarily. 

I gingerly slide each tray of eight
into a white plastic bag 
for proofing on the dining table
in indirect sunlight. 

Magic continues without my surveillance.
Two hours thirty-nine minutes later,
I retract the plastic-shroud from each pan.
Index and thumb outstretched, 
my finger pads meet taupe marshmallow
I take light pinches of proof-buoyed dough. 

This time I hold my overpriced 
artisan black walnut lame
with the confidence of someone 
who's done this before.

I slice deftly, swiftly,
razor blade glinting;
clean edges, no drag.
I sigh with relief: 
success.  

Slip one tray into each oven,
the five hundred degree fahrenheit heat 
blows across my face, hot breath,
moist as an exhale, 
thanks to makeshift ice cube steam.

Injecting two more doses of steam,
at specific increments, 
— a dance of art, and love, and science —
filtered crescents clatter into 
an awaiting cast iron pan 
at the bottom of each oven.

Lower the temperature, 
if not my yearning
and set another kitchen timer:
twenty-five minutes to gain a golden hue 
before another thirty on wire racks, cooling.

I watch as my little globes grow and rise.
Patient, just barely, I stare down the alarm.

The count-down until I can sink my fingers
through crisp crust, 
to expose spongy, airy inner flesh,
is the last, most insufferable wait of the day.

Butter knife in hand, 
when the timer bleats, 
I pounce.

In the dim light of the dining room,
I lift steaming bread to my lips.
Butter drips on my fingers, 
down my wrists.

Enclosing my mouth 
around the warm, nubbly roll,
so long awaited, so hard-earned,
I believe once again in deities.