There is something mystical about making bread. Even though you think you know what you are doing, one day you set about the task and it is different. It is not so much you making the bread, but the bread playing with you.
Tonight, my tormentor was a large basin of challah dough. I tried a different recipe, and the whole lump in my hands behaved in a strange way. It was too wet, then the elasticity changed, then the smell. When I tried to braid it, the neat long rolls of dough wriggled and bulged and popped in my hands. I felt like a circus performer, a juggler, a boxer. The rascal was fighting me; doing a side shoe shuffle through my fingers.
Then it settled, relaxed and allowed itself to be decorated with sesame, lounging on the oven trays. I swear I saw it sighing and dozing, dreaming of the cooking to come.
Tomorrow is Jewish New Year. I think my bread intends to celebrate too, and was just getting a bit too over excited the night before.
Chag Sameach and Shana Tova ve metuka!