Why the Kids Really Need A Little Red Hen Mama....
The grain mill whirs loud, crushing a stream of kernels. I stand in the kitchen by an open sack, grinding the wheat to bake the bread, to break the fasts. Since the beginning, since the dawn, this, the work of women, the feeding of children. The sun rises.
And I have to ask it straight out....
Why do I feed my kids scraps off the floor?
I think this, line the loaf pans with sheets of parchment paper. Our youngest, still sleepy, pulls a stool up beside. Shaping the warmth of the bread dough between the palms, I murmur it, laying dough down into loaves "... then tuck the babies into their wee trundle beds.... " I say this every time we make bread.
"Those pans aren't really trundle beds, are they?" Littlest laughs, her nose crinkled, ringlets bouncing.
"Yes, they are!" I wink. She shakes her head happy. "And then we spread the blanket up over the cribs and let them rise in sleep." I pull a warm damp cloth up over the bread pans. I tussle her hair. She giggles.
Bread for babies.
Littlest peeks under the corner of the damp dishtowel, check on dough rising, and Jesus peels back a bit of me again:
"Stand in line and take your turn.
The children get fed first.
If there's any left over,
the dogs get it." ~ Mark 7:27
She turns to me, face framed in tendrils tangled and I look into that upturned face, freshness with a dash of freckle. I brush her cheek: Who gets fed first in this house?
Photos and Text: Ann Voskamp@Holy Experience
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