The Smell of Fresh Bread
Every Saturday my mother rose at four. I would listen from under the eiderdown as she kneaded the dough in the wooden trough, humming softly – always the same song, whose words I never learned.
By sunrise the whole house smelled of bread. My father would leave his boots at the door and say, “Well, Margit, you’ve baked the best bread in the world again.” My mother waved him off, but I could see her smile.