Dough

Ode to the Dough

In the dim kitchen light where the oven's glow watches, I knead the humble earth‑swept mixture, a quiet tale of yeast‑made wishes.

Soft and breathing, the dough curls like a sleepy cat in a window, its skin a patchwork of flour‑spattered ripples that catch the afternoon’s light.

Cradled in a tin of tin‑plate, the dough swells with gentle confidence, as if ready to step into the world and taste every loaf’s green park path.

It waits beneath a damp dishcloth, a soft breath of cool, damp soil, where in the pantry’s quiet bones the spell of flavour takes its course.

Yeast, the invisible sage, whispers in cycles, "Rise, my child, let the crumb open wide, for the crowd of guests in London’s cafés shall taste the tang of dough’s sunrise."

Now the kitchen crackles, the air fills with that warm, sticky scent— a promise of morning biscuits, scones crowned in clotted cream.

And as I pull the dough to the table, its arms a confectionary ribbon, I imagine a crowd of tea‑drinking Brits huddled, passing plates in the hush of a library.

For dough is not merely bread or pastry— it is history kneaded into every offering, a rhyme in spelt, a line in millet, the heart of every meal, the love of every storefront.

In this small, flour‑kissed circle, British summers and rainy nights are infused with the promise that, no matter how tough the day may be, there’s a loaf of dough waiting to rise and rise again.