Momma Baked Bread

The aroma did awaken, oh how the heart did quicken, as that leavening became a foretaste of paradise./ It mattered little, rye or white, or whether the oven burned day or night./ We knew what we could expect./ Though in the kitchen we dared not manage or direct./ The baking was her kitchen project, taken with the same measure of care as a NASA rocket./ God- I miss that bread so and I wonder why that dearest baker had to go.