The Weight of Sunday Morning

When I was seven, my grandmother would spend the better part of a Saturday afternoon kneading dough in our kitchen in Enugu. I remember the rhythmic thud of her palms against the wooden board, a sound that seemed to hold the house together. She never used a timer; she simply waited for the dough to feel like a living thing under her hands, something that breathed and pushed back. There was a specific, quiet holiness in that patience. As an adult, I find that we have mostly traded that slow, tactile labor for the convenience of the finished product. We have forgotten that some things are only worth having because of the time they demand from us. We rush to the end, missing the way the flour dusts the air like light, or how the warmth of a fresh loaf feels against the chest like a small, beating heart. What is it that we are truly feeding when we finally sit down to eat?

Adriaan Pretorius has captured this exact quietude in his image titled With a Touch of Swedishness. It reminds me that the simplest things, when treated with care, become the most substantial parts of our day. Does this image make you want to slow down and break bread with someone you love?