The Eye of the Beholder
Title: The Eye of the Beholder
Author: Florence A. Watson
Written for: Brigit’s Flame Challenge - October 2014 (week one)
Prompt: Upon the Inward Eye
Genre: Fiction, Contemporary
Rating: General
Length: 791 words
Author’s Notes: These are all my own characters.
The Eye of the Beholder
Molly found the dough abandoned in a large stoneware bowl on the kitchen counter. Jane had been called out unexpectedly some time ago. She had left saying she’d be back soon. That had been hours ago. Molly poked the dough experimentally. Had it risen once already? Probably not, she thought. After all, there was no cloth over it and it wasn’t set on the back of the Aga where it was warm. She stood contemplating the pale brown mass for a few moments, not that that told her anything. Perhaps it might ‘speak’ to an experienced eye but to her it was silent. Still, she had watched Jane making bread before. Quickly she removed her ring, rinsed her hands, and plunged them into the bowl. The dough stuck to her slightly damp fingers; when she put it on the counter, it stuck to the surface. Flour - she should add flour. How much? She dumped several ounces on top as she pushed the mixture back and forth, folding one half over the other, giving it a half-turn, pressing down on it some more. How long was one supposed to knead bread for? Vaguely she remembered Jane telling her once the secret to a nice even texture was in the kneading. Jane always hummed as she kneaded, always smiled that little smile, always seemed to thoroughly enjoy the chore. As she squeezed and pounded the dough, Molly could understand why. An hour later she put the dough back into the bowl and shoved it against the back of the counter, good deed done.
It was past midnight when a weary Jane came in. Oh damn! She’d forgotten the bread. If she didn’t finish it now there would be none for breakfast. The dough seemed more solid, somehow, than when she had left it; it certainly hadn’t risen as much as she would have expected given how long she’d been gone. She had proved the yeast when she started but it was an old tin; perhaps it wasn’t quite as ‘live’ as she had thought. Still it was too late to do anything about that now. Jane’s movements as she kneaded, then shaped the dough into a round loaf, were efficient from long practice. She was too tired now to organise the baking tray, so the rounded ball of dough was popped back into its bowl. She’d do that in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.
Molly was up with the larks. As she sat at the kitchen table sipping her mug of tea her gaze rested on the stoneware bowl. She’d heard Jane come in very late the night before; she wouldn’t be up anytime soon. Once again Molly found herself standing over the bowl studying its contents. The dough seemed somewhat higher than when she had left it yesterday evening. Was it ready? Though...she’d kneaded it once. Shouldn’t bread be kneaded twice? Or was that too much? She had a dim memory of once watching some celebrity cookery show and hearing that one could never knead bread too much. This time Molly carefully measured a nice amount of flour out onto the counter before she put the dough on top and began to knead. She smiled as she worked the bread. It would be such a lovely surprise for Jane when she got up to find the bread already made, instead of having to make it herself. In her mind’s eye she followed the memories of Jane shaping the loaf before placing it on a floured baking tray and popping it into the oven. She realised as she opened the oven door that she’d forgotten to warm the oven; even an Aga took a little time to get to the right temperature, particularly first thing in the morning. Still, Jane had always told her bread was a very ‘forgiving’ food to work with, so it would just have to forgive her the cold start. Molly turned the heat up high to make up the difference, before picking up the kitchen scissors and going out to the garden. Some flowers on the breakfast table would not come amiss.
The lovely yeasty smell of baking permeated through the house and wove itself into Jane’s dream, reminding her it was time to get up. She yawned and stretched, then kicked the covers off and padded to the bathroom. It was not until she looked at her reflection brushing its teeth that the penny dropped. Bread baking? Bread baking? Quickly she wiped her mouth and rushed downstairs. The yeasty smell had a certain tinge to it now.... A solid lump was pulled out from the oven, blackened on the top and - Jane sliced into it - only partly baked on the inside: their daily bread.
This entry was originally posted at http://fawatson.dreamwidth.org/28146.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author: Florence A. Watson
Written for: Brigit’s Flame Challenge - October 2014 (week one)
Prompt: Upon the Inward Eye
Genre: Fiction, Contemporary
Rating: General
Length: 791 words
Author’s Notes: These are all my own characters.
The Eye of the Beholder
Molly found the dough abandoned in a large stoneware bowl on the kitchen counter. Jane had been called out unexpectedly some time ago. She had left saying she’d be back soon. That had been hours ago. Molly poked the dough experimentally. Had it risen once already? Probably not, she thought. After all, there was no cloth over it and it wasn’t set on the back of the Aga where it was warm. She stood contemplating the pale brown mass for a few moments, not that that told her anything. Perhaps it might ‘speak’ to an experienced eye but to her it was silent. Still, she had watched Jane making bread before. Quickly she removed her ring, rinsed her hands, and plunged them into the bowl. The dough stuck to her slightly damp fingers; when she put it on the counter, it stuck to the surface. Flour - she should add flour. How much? She dumped several ounces on top as she pushed the mixture back and forth, folding one half over the other, giving it a half-turn, pressing down on it some more. How long was one supposed to knead bread for? Vaguely she remembered Jane telling her once the secret to a nice even texture was in the kneading. Jane always hummed as she kneaded, always smiled that little smile, always seemed to thoroughly enjoy the chore. As she squeezed and pounded the dough, Molly could understand why. An hour later she put the dough back into the bowl and shoved it against the back of the counter, good deed done.
It was past midnight when a weary Jane came in. Oh damn! She’d forgotten the bread. If she didn’t finish it now there would be none for breakfast. The dough seemed more solid, somehow, than when she had left it; it certainly hadn’t risen as much as she would have expected given how long she’d been gone. She had proved the yeast when she started but it was an old tin; perhaps it wasn’t quite as ‘live’ as she had thought. Still it was too late to do anything about that now. Jane’s movements as she kneaded, then shaped the dough into a round loaf, were efficient from long practice. She was too tired now to organise the baking tray, so the rounded ball of dough was popped back into its bowl. She’d do that in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.
Molly was up with the larks. As she sat at the kitchen table sipping her mug of tea her gaze rested on the stoneware bowl. She’d heard Jane come in very late the night before; she wouldn’t be up anytime soon. Once again Molly found herself standing over the bowl studying its contents. The dough seemed somewhat higher than when she had left it yesterday evening. Was it ready? Though...she’d kneaded it once. Shouldn’t bread be kneaded twice? Or was that too much? She had a dim memory of once watching some celebrity cookery show and hearing that one could never knead bread too much. This time Molly carefully measured a nice amount of flour out onto the counter before she put the dough on top and began to knead. She smiled as she worked the bread. It would be such a lovely surprise for Jane when she got up to find the bread already made, instead of having to make it herself. In her mind’s eye she followed the memories of Jane shaping the loaf before placing it on a floured baking tray and popping it into the oven. She realised as she opened the oven door that she’d forgotten to warm the oven; even an Aga took a little time to get to the right temperature, particularly first thing in the morning. Still, Jane had always told her bread was a very ‘forgiving’ food to work with, so it would just have to forgive her the cold start. Molly turned the heat up high to make up the difference, before picking up the kitchen scissors and going out to the garden. Some flowers on the breakfast table would not come amiss.
The lovely yeasty smell of baking permeated through the house and wove itself into Jane’s dream, reminding her it was time to get up. She yawned and stretched, then kicked the covers off and padded to the bathroom. It was not until she looked at her reflection brushing its teeth that the penny dropped. Bread baking? Bread baking? Quickly she wiped her mouth and rushed downstairs. The yeasty smell had a certain tinge to it now.... A solid lump was pulled out from the oven, blackened on the top and - Jane sliced into it - only partly baked on the inside: their daily bread.
This entry was originally posted at http://fawatson.dreamwidth.org/28146.html. Please comment there using OpenID.