Half-baked Bread

And we understood each other in so many ways;

Heart to heart and soul to soul.

You, my grandmother, my Nana.

I remember the day you wanted to teach me how to bake bread. 

Food was love, and you wanted to teach me how to bake love.

I remember that day, because I had other plans.

So I watched as you mixed the dough, sulking.

"How much flour?" I asked.

"Feel the dough," you said.

What does that even mean?

I didn't wait for you to finish, the bread was still baking in the oven when I left.

I was impatient, headstrong and stubborn; I didn't understand.

But it was far more than a lesson in flour and sugar and feeling the dough.

It was about traditions and generations;

about the old and the new.

Something to pass down, your footprint; your legacy.

And love...always about the love.

I look back now, and I understand. If only I could have one more hour with you.

It doesn't matter when, any day in 1970 when you were still here and I was sixteen.

I would spend every waking minute with you.

I would learn how to bake your bread and sauce;

Most of all I would rejoice in your wisdom, I would ask about the details...

And memorize every line on your face.

Today, I reflect on the past.

All grown up and proud to be called Nana, just like I called you..

But still I remember,

Flour, yeast, sugar in the kitchen of my childhood...

Love, happiness, tradition are the ingredients that linger.

It is bittersweet with reminisce the half baked memories of a young girls dreams.

Dedicated to my Nana, Chiarina 1898-1976.