I stand in the kitchen making bread...
Open the package, pour in the mix,
Pour in the yeast, press some buttons.
It makes funny noises while it kneeds the dough,
But the smell of the fresh loaf is heavenly.
I think about when you taught me to make bread, Mom...
Mix the flour and water and shortening.
I remember the sticky dough on my fingers,
The kneeding, the rolling, the heat of the oven.
But today it's all done by machine.
Your lore of bread-making will be lost to my daughters.
They only know the machine.
One time, Mom, I made a batch of your bread for them.
They didn't like it.
Tastes have changed, and it wasn't sweet enough for them.
We have the dillusion that knowledge is passed on
Mother to daughter through time.
But my own daughters?
What will they know of Aebleskiver, Rodgort, or Frikadeller?
Have I let your memory down?
Yet I think it must always be so,
That only a little of the old ways are passed on.
How much did your mother pass on to you that I did not receive?
But for now some of your memory is preserved in me...
For now... for now...
