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The Recipe
calls for flour, beer, salt, and sugar, a bread tin, and other ingredients,
as desired. I twist the cap off a bottle of Yuengling porter, sip it first,
a
few drops like honey in my beard, then pour the rest in a pot over
clumps of flour. The foam bubbles, then seeps through, and the bat-
ter thickens. A tablespoon of salt. Two of sugar. Garlic buds, peeled
by hand and crushed in a press, the yellow-blue curds squeezed into
the pot. Had you come in the kitchen then, you'd have seen me clean
the press of the papery pulps of garlic, rinsing my hands under cold
water. But you waited until I'd snapped shut the oven door, then snuck
behind, circled your arms around my chest, your mouth against my
shoulder, breathing warmly through my sweater. I could almost turn
back to smell your hair, but ran my hand instead from your hip to
your ribs, pulled loose your shirt and brushed my fingertips against
your side. When we opened the oven, the elements burned red as
tanagers. You took the first slice from the loaf, still too hot, and
mumbled, mouth full, words escaping like steam, "My God, it's won-
derful, wonderful bread."
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