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# Backwards
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/backwards/
- Published: 2026-06-24T11:57:16.000Z
- Updated: 2026-06-24T11:57:16.000Z
- Description: “Backwards,” an observation of baking-induced psychosis, written Wednesday, June 24, poem 175 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Baker's Math," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Current Events, Humor, Long form musings, Loosely Hinged, Poems, Pun-y / Tongue-in-Cheek, Rants, Attention, Backwards, Baguettes, Baker's Math, Bonnets, Clock, Counting, Cruel, Culinary Arts, Finish Line, Flour, French, Golden Crust, June, Lame, Marshmallow, Math, Mathematician, Miso, Perfect, Pie Crust, Pluribus, Quadratic Equation, Receipts, Relationship, Ruminating, Sourdough, Summer, Them, Thursday, Tired, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

I count the clock backwards.  
Time is a cruel mathematician.  
Time math is difficult.  
Especially for those   
with time blindness   
And for those whom  
continuity of attention   
is —   
  
I scribble on receipts   
I tally in margins  
I render chalk dust airborne   
as I tap away   
at a wall-mounted board  
Calculating  
Ruminating   
Estimating.  
  
I fake my way through   
a doctorate in culinary arts  
Sweating the small stuff   
Preparing for my current,   
near future and distal states  
What flours will I need and when?  
Where will I need to be at three A.M.?  
Can I start this recipe at five,  
And still put in a solid day at the office?  
I mean I have to,   
so the give comes at the edges,   
at the periphery of sleep and sanity.  
  
Or will my starter collapse  
In the interim   
while I’m across town  
advocating for transformation   
at work.  
  
Change rapidly exerts herself  
upon my colonies,   
my organism housemates,   
all vying for my attention   
and feeding hand.  
  
Anticipating the rise and fall  
Of a civilization of found   
and much coddled yeast  
Has proven to involve   
much mental gymnastics   
and a feigned multimodal skills.  
  
To intuit elapsed time  
Prepare for chess moves   
thirteen hours in the future  
— Or is it nine? —  
  
And do bowl math   
And spatula math  
And oven proofing   
versus counter time math  
And divining how much starter   
I’ll want bubbly on Friday  
but wish staid and sated   
through mid-week?  
  
And then there’s flour math  
How many bags   
of starches and grains  
will I need to accomplish  
miso nori baguettes on Sunday  
pancakes on Monday  
popovers on Tuesday  
and maybe pie crust   
or pizza on Wednesday  
but then encourage  
into dormancy by Thursday?  
  
How many  
overnight delivery orders  
Of ivory teff and sorghum  
tapioca and superfine rice  
mason jar bonnets  
— wee linen shower caps   
for glass vessels —   
fancy flour storage containers  
countertop food scales  
and lab grade weigh boats   
in 225mL and 25ml variants  
will I tap into my big box cart  
and check out   
in desperation  
on my small blue-lit screen  
lying in bed   
as my partner   
attempts slumber?  
  
Like the answer to:  
*How many licks* 
*Does it take* 
*To get to the center* 
*Of a Tootsie Pop*?  
The world,   
at the very least certainly I,  
may never know.  
  
“Don’t let it push you around,”   
he advises.  
“*Them*,”   
I reply, in automatic correction,   
my vexation creeping   
around the snarly edges   
of my em-*phas*\-is.  
  
And that may be the tell.  
It’s too late, I suspect.   
  
Pluribus;  
I am Them.  
We are We.  
Inextricably linked  
through my   
rediscovered  
reinvented   
obligatory relationship.  
I feed them;  
They feed me  
I do time math;  
They do oven aeronautics  
It’s a circle.  
Of life and death.  
Of rise and fall.  
  
I lament   
— as I slide my lame   
(((((say this in a French accent))))))   
over the taut marshmallow surface   
of a proofed country banneton —   
that I’d not learned more about  
baker’s math in school  
than I did about   
the quadratic equation.  
  
Because contortions   
of hours and minutes   
and temperatures   
and resting and rising   
and preheating   
have me in a tizzy.  
  
And I’m counting backwards  
unraveling the   
marching strands of time  
In search of the perfect proof  
the spry sponge   
the golden crust  
and the finish line.  
We are tired.