I’ve just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. I made wheat bread because I have some whole wheat flour I’ve been meaning to use and what better time than when the store shelves are empty of bread and flour. As soon as it was out, I cut off the end, piled on a slab of butter and shared the hot, buttery chunk with Lyd.

We have a pattern to our days since we retired. It is mostly unaffected by the quarantine. Today was the day to change the bed sheets and vacuum. I still need to bring the garbage carts back from the curb and our jobs are done. It’s not much, but it is the ritual of our week; the element around which we build our other activities. Bread making is not part of the weekly schedule, though, for us, but it is part of the ritual.

I’m in favor of rituals. They are a form of historical communication. They provide an unassuming continuity to our being. I do certain things because it is how they were done when I was young. I still say “sir” and “ma’am” to be polite. It’s what my folks did and, I hope, it is what my children do. We hand things on and create a commonality that becomes a culture. I make chili the way my father did and mulligatawny the way Lyd’s mom did. These are comforting things, that help to get us through the difficult times. Returning from a journey always ends, for us, with a dinner of pork chops and fried potatoes. It does not matter whether we are returning from a day trip or a three-week, multi-state junket. Good trip, bad trip. It doesn’t matter.  It’s what we do.

So, the bread is ready and the clam chowder is warming. It’s a recipe Lydia’s mom used and I copied. My son and daughter make it the same way. It’s what we do.

 

Day 14

Blessings

 

Unwanted Travels