Game On

Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.

I just baked a loaf of bread.

Oh yeah. (insert hip shimmy)

My mother has devoted her life to the kitchen, to the family, to cleanliness, to God.
My mother bakes pies and vacuums the carpet in a cross-hatched pattern.
My mother changes sheets even when nobody has slept in the bed because after a while she thinks they don't smell as nice anymore.

I bow in deference to her unattainable virtues.
The husband daydreams about her coming to live with us.

Get it?

One day I said something about her homemade bread and how awesome it was.
She looked at me askance, as if thinking to herself.
Then she threw down her dishtowel and crooked her finger,
"Come with me."

I followed her down into the basement to the 2nd freezer, the one that can pop back open if you don't jam your shoulder up against the door and hold it closed for a second before gingerly letting go.

She opened up that freezer with an arm flourish.
She stared at me, daring me to say something, her hand reaching inside while her eyes stayed locked with mine.
I was rooted to the spot as she drew out the bag and held it in my face.

Frozen bread loaves. I gasped.

Then she got this wild look in her eye, raised the bag over her head and threw it down to the cement at her feet.
I jumped aside - my eyebrows were ceiling level.

Suddenly she became her old self again.
Sweet, soft-spoken. I think she giggled.
She picked up the loaves and told me that sometimes they stick together in the freezer and that's the best way to get 'em apart.

I leaned hard against the freezer and watched her sashay up those steps,
her secret divulged, a devilish smile on her face.

I have been in awe of her since.

Fresh bread toniiiight.
100 percent whole graiiiin.
I let it riiiise.
I greased a paaaan.

Oh yeah.
Oh yeah.