The Undomestic Goddess
Page 76
Iris’s cottage is looking as idyllic as ever as I dash up to the front door, out of breath. In fact, even more idyllic, as a goose is now wandering about with her hens.
“Hello.” Iris is sitting on the front step with a mug of tea. “You seem in a hurry.”
“I just wanted to get here on time.” I glance around the garden, but there’s no sign of Nathaniel.
“Nathaniel had to go and sort out a leaking pipe at one of the pubs,” says Iris, as though reading my mind. “But he’ll be back later. Meanwhile, we’re going to make bread.”
“Great!” I say. I follow her into the kitchen and put on the same stripy apron as last time.
“I’ve started us off already,” says Iris, going over to a large, old-fashioned mixing bowl on the table. “Yeast, warm water, melted butter, and flour. Mix together and you have your dough. Now, you’re going to knead it.”
“Right,” I say, looking blankly at the dough. She shoots me a curious glance.
“Are you all right, Samantha? You seem … out of sorts.”
“I’m fine.” I will myself to concentrate. “Sorry.”
“I know people have machines to do this for them,” she says, hefting the dough onto the table. “But this is how we make it the old-fashioned way. You’ll never taste better.”
She kneads it briskly a couple of times. “You see? Fold it over, make a quarter turn. You need to use a bit of energy.”
Cautiously I plunge my hands into the soft dough and try to imitate her.
“That’s it,” says Iris, watching carefully. “Get into a rhythm and really work it. Kneading’s very good for releasing stress,” she adds with wry humor. “Pretend you’re bashing all your worst enemies.”
“I’ll do that!” I manage a cheerful tone.
But there’s a knot of tension in my chest, which doesn’t dwindle away as I knead. In fact, the more I fold and turn the dough, the worse it seems to get. I can’t stop my mind flipping back to that Web site.
I did good things for that firm. I won clients. I negotiated deals. I was not nothing.
I was not nothing.
“The more you work the dough, the better the bread will be,” says Iris, coming over to the table with a smile. “Can you feel it becoming warm and elastic in your hands?”
I look at the dough in my fingers, but I can’t connect with it. I can’t feel what she wants me to. My senses aren’t plugged in. My mind is skittering about like a squirrel on ice.
I start kneading again, harder than before, trying to capture it. I want to find that contentment I had last time I was here, that feeling of simplicity and earthiness. But I keep losing my rhythm, cursing in frustration as my fingers catch on the dough. My upper arms are aching; my face is sweating. And the turmoil inside me is only getting worse.
How dare they wipe me out? I was a good lawyer.
I was a good fucking lawyer.
“Would you like a rest?” Iris comes over and touches my shoulder. “It’s hard work when you’re not used to it.”
“What’s the point?” My words shoot out before I can stop them. “I mean, what’s the point of all this? Making bread. You make it and you eat it. And then … it’s gone.”
I break off abruptly, not quite knowing what’s come over me. I don’t feel totally on top of myself.
Iris gives me a careful look.
“You could say the same of all food,” she points out gently. “Or life itself.”
“Exactly.” I rub my forehead with my apron. “Exactly.”
I don’t know what I’m saying. Why am I picking a fight with Iris? I must calm down.
“I think that’s enough kneading,” she says, taking the dough from me and patting it into a round shape.
“Now what?” I say, trying to speak more normally. “Shall I put it in the oven?”
“Not yet.” Iris places the dough back in the bowl and puts it on top of the stove. “Now we wait.”
“Wait?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, wait?”
“We wait.” She pops a tea towel over the bowl. “Half an hour should do it. I’ll make a cup of tea.”
“But … what are we waiting for?”
“For the yeast to rise and work its magic on the dough.” She smiles. “Underneath that towel, a small miracle is happening.”
I look at the bowl, trying to think miracles. But it isn’t working. I can’t feel calm or serene. My body is wound up too far; every nerve is hopping with tension. I used to be in control of my time to the minute. To the second. And now I’m supposed to wait for yeast? I’m supposed to stand here, in an apron, waiting for a … fungus?
“Hello.” Iris is sitting on the front step with a mug of tea. “You seem in a hurry.”
“I just wanted to get here on time.” I glance around the garden, but there’s no sign of Nathaniel.
“Nathaniel had to go and sort out a leaking pipe at one of the pubs,” says Iris, as though reading my mind. “But he’ll be back later. Meanwhile, we’re going to make bread.”
“Great!” I say. I follow her into the kitchen and put on the same stripy apron as last time.
“I’ve started us off already,” says Iris, going over to a large, old-fashioned mixing bowl on the table. “Yeast, warm water, melted butter, and flour. Mix together and you have your dough. Now, you’re going to knead it.”
“Right,” I say, looking blankly at the dough. She shoots me a curious glance.
“Are you all right, Samantha? You seem … out of sorts.”
“I’m fine.” I will myself to concentrate. “Sorry.”
“I know people have machines to do this for them,” she says, hefting the dough onto the table. “But this is how we make it the old-fashioned way. You’ll never taste better.”
She kneads it briskly a couple of times. “You see? Fold it over, make a quarter turn. You need to use a bit of energy.”
Cautiously I plunge my hands into the soft dough and try to imitate her.
“That’s it,” says Iris, watching carefully. “Get into a rhythm and really work it. Kneading’s very good for releasing stress,” she adds with wry humor. “Pretend you’re bashing all your worst enemies.”
“I’ll do that!” I manage a cheerful tone.
But there’s a knot of tension in my chest, which doesn’t dwindle away as I knead. In fact, the more I fold and turn the dough, the worse it seems to get. I can’t stop my mind flipping back to that Web site.
I did good things for that firm. I won clients. I negotiated deals. I was not nothing.
I was not nothing.
“The more you work the dough, the better the bread will be,” says Iris, coming over to the table with a smile. “Can you feel it becoming warm and elastic in your hands?”
I look at the dough in my fingers, but I can’t connect with it. I can’t feel what she wants me to. My senses aren’t plugged in. My mind is skittering about like a squirrel on ice.
I start kneading again, harder than before, trying to capture it. I want to find that contentment I had last time I was here, that feeling of simplicity and earthiness. But I keep losing my rhythm, cursing in frustration as my fingers catch on the dough. My upper arms are aching; my face is sweating. And the turmoil inside me is only getting worse.
How dare they wipe me out? I was a good lawyer.
I was a good fucking lawyer.
“Would you like a rest?” Iris comes over and touches my shoulder. “It’s hard work when you’re not used to it.”
“What’s the point?” My words shoot out before I can stop them. “I mean, what’s the point of all this? Making bread. You make it and you eat it. And then … it’s gone.”
I break off abruptly, not quite knowing what’s come over me. I don’t feel totally on top of myself.
Iris gives me a careful look.
“You could say the same of all food,” she points out gently. “Or life itself.”
“Exactly.” I rub my forehead with my apron. “Exactly.”
I don’t know what I’m saying. Why am I picking a fight with Iris? I must calm down.
“I think that’s enough kneading,” she says, taking the dough from me and patting it into a round shape.
“Now what?” I say, trying to speak more normally. “Shall I put it in the oven?”
“Not yet.” Iris places the dough back in the bowl and puts it on top of the stove. “Now we wait.”
“Wait?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, wait?”
“We wait.” She pops a tea towel over the bowl. “Half an hour should do it. I’ll make a cup of tea.”
“But … what are we waiting for?”
“For the yeast to rise and work its magic on the dough.” She smiles. “Underneath that towel, a small miracle is happening.”
I look at the bowl, trying to think miracles. But it isn’t working. I can’t feel calm or serene. My body is wound up too far; every nerve is hopping with tension. I used to be in control of my time to the minute. To the second. And now I’m supposed to wait for yeast? I’m supposed to stand here, in an apron, waiting for a … fungus?
