The recipe was difficult. It had a long name. A French name. I saw the video online. A man with calm hands. He made it look simple. The pages of the book were worn. I had not tried it before. The ingredients were simple. Just flour and water and yeast. But the instructions were a kind of puzzle.
I began to work. I mixed the flour and the yeast in a big bowl. It was dry. It was dusty. I added the water. It was cold water. A mistake. The dough became a thing. Not a good thing. It was alive. It stuck to my fingers. It grabbed at me. It did not want to be bread. It had other plans.
I tried to knead it. My hands went in. It pulled at my skin. It was angry. Then it was mischievous. It laughed at me, a quiet, sticky laugh. I put flour on my hands. It did not help. The flour was a white dust. The dough reached for the counter. It spread. It was a monster. It had no shape. It had no will to be bread. It only wanted to be on me. It wanted to be everywhere.
I stood there. I was covered in it. My hands. My shirt. My hair. The counter. The floor. The dough laughed its sticky laugh. It had conquered the kitchen. I looked at the bowl. It was empty. The dough was now a part of everything.
I did not make the bread. I made a mess. A very big mess. It was not what I set out to do. It was something else entirely. It was a memory of a day. A stupid day. And a very clever dough.
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