Breaking Bread
Jane Butkin Roth
You took the house, I took the dining table; and we split our children right down the middle-- although it’s hard to divide three, so they come out even.... And so it went, plate by plate, undoing what was left of our lives together. It was not an unpleasant morning; we were always at our best with a project.... I heard you worried later I may have sneaked an extra Pyrex.
Now you come in, uninvited, and stare at my walls where the paintings, which used to be ours, are mine; and I see your discomfort. ’Though I gave you all your first choices, you say, “I’ll trade you the Gorman for the Fairchild, or the two Mortensens for the Miro.” But there comes a time to stop passing things across the lines.
Your main irritation is at the breadmaking machine on my crowded counter-top-- such a modern convenience, so easy, so fast. You remember when its blade gave out, letting us down like a broken promise. And you tell me you would like it, that you would fix it. But I won’t give it up and I won’t fix it, and I see how crazy it still makes you for me to let things go. You were always so efficient. Even before the breadmaker fell apart, it was mostly hype, as it popped out its tiny, misshapen or too-perfect loaf, its aroma barely a hint....
Before the machine came into my life, I used to braid my own loaf: a wondrous work of art. I loved to work the dough all day; it kept me close to the house as I waited for the yeast to bring life. I was kneading... punching... waiting in stages ’til the smell filled the house, ’til we were both done-- the loaf and I-- golden, glistening, and proud.
My broken breadmaker takes up too much space now; it’s quite lifeless and useless. But I keep it. Today, when you leave, I open the top and peer in, surprised. It takes only one tear to make a tinny sound falling on a dead blade; one tear to mark a time when our home was filled with the fragrance of bread in the oven, when everyone had his place, and I still wanted, more than anything, to set our table.
