It’s more of a joke really, but not untrue. I make the bread so “we’ll feel safe.” There is comfort in the scent that wafts through the house. And I can feel it, like a cartoon hug that wraps around my shoulders. Not to mention the healing power of the toasted breakfast. 

My grandma wasn’t a painter, but she did make quilts. And it’s not lost on me, having them here still, I can feel, not just the warmth they provide, but the hug that wraps my wanting shoulders – shoulders that are the conduit for the heart, and I am saved. 

I didn’t think about it then, mostly because I was given the gift of not having to, but wasn’t she doing the same thing? When she made the quilts, kept the Lazy Susan stacked with candy, bought the individual cereal packs — it was more than just fun, it was our safety net, our assurance that we could count on her. It was the steady of her Thom McCann’s beneath her aproned belly. And we weren’t just safe, we were saved.

Bread is rather sacred here in France. Just as the quilt would be to a Minnesota winter, I suppose. At the breakfast table, I wrap myself in it, this small taste of blessed assurance, with just a hint of blueberry. 

Good morning!