My town has a spectrum of sub groups. One is for exchanging goods, be they free or for a small price. Another addresses emergency preparedness and sprung up because of current calamities. There is one for gardeners, another for artists, and still another that speaks to runners. There are collections for various church service attendees, parents of preschoolers, those who support the local college, elementary or high school, the dance team, and folks who grocery shop for their neighbors. 

 

This week I leaped into the collective of bakers exploring sour dough. In a trice there were two women who delivered small jars with active starters to my back door, one gluten free and the other the traditional variety. The group offers a string of videos made by a woman who has been around bread making her whole life, showing the particulars for keeping yeast happy. When to stir and when to rest. How much flour to sprinkle, and when the dough craves moisture. Today I will join the legacy of women throughout history who coax tiny organisms to dance and chew.

 

I eased myself in with pancakes. They were a hit, smothered in berries and maple syrup. Somehow the sourness was a welcome contrast to the sweetness. Together they fed us. 

 

A woman who is brave enough to venture into large scale procurement of flour will be supplying a score of bakers this weekend, heaving a hundred and fifty pounds of it into her car.  Then in our own kitchens we will baby our starters into expansion, and our loaves into rising. 

 

Perhaps it is an apt metaphor for the women whose hands are doing the kneading.