It's dark-thirty, midnight, the house is silent.
And I just had a conversation with a lump of sourdough.
It may not have been as much me conversing with the dough, but the dough working magic - some alchemy of yeast and flour - pulling thoughts from my brain, through my fingers, and soaking them up with each push and turn. Its pale beige innards becoming outards with a twist.
My innards becoming outards in synch.
"Why," I asked the sourdough, or the sourdough made me think I asked, "do I do this? Why am I up at 11:30 at night, pushing you around, when I could be tucked in bed, asleep with an empty cup of tea and a half-read novel?"
The sourdough said fshhh, fshhh, fshhh, as I mushed it into the granite. Because, you see, sourdough, like a lumpy Zen master pulling the truth from within you in silence, doesn't talk.
Why, I thought again, and not in a consternated, unhappy way. More like cracking a door into a room in your house that you've never been in.
Why do I do any of this?
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