I woke up early Sunday morning to bake two loaves of sourdough, one for my family and one for my friend Jane, whom I had promised a loaf to.

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As I knead every loaf by hand (and it is hard work), I asked my bleary-eyed, undomesticated and very reluctant daughter to help me with the kneading.  I measured everything out, and divided the dough into two.

She huffed, by kneaded anyway. I could tell her mind wasn’t on the job.

“I have so much work to do, Mum!” She exclaimed.

I told her that when I was a teenager, my mum told me that even if I became the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the most important job that I will do is  always the one in the home.

And that includes baking bread on Sunday mornings.

More huffing, but we got through the required kneading time (30 minutes). We covered the bread up and went to church.

Hers:

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Mine:

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“You have sabotaged mine!” She said crossly. Why should I? I need two loaves. Also, they came from the same source, so to speak. I just divided the dough into two for kneading.

She did her best to rescue her dough. She added more yeast and pummelled away at it with gusto. She added more flour. Then more water. Then more pummelling. The dough would not rise.

Moral of this post: Treat your body with love and it will bloom beautifully. You think I am kidding? I once knew someone with cold, hard lumps of fat under his skin distributed on various locations in his body. These lumps are not harmful, but I believe they come from lack of love, non-sexual touch, affectionate caresses and gentle strokes. We can eat the best of foods, yet be sick.  Similarly, we can heal another human being and mend a broken spirit just by the power of our touch.  The two different outcomes from our Sunday baking seem to say the same thing: how do you treat your body? IT MATTERS.

Photo below: a loaf baked with love.

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