Have you ever really watched a man make bread?
The way he concentrates, his brow furrowed so seriously as he carefully reads the recipe and measures each ingredient.
The way he bites his bottom lip, his tongue sneaking out to wet it before his top teeth clench down.
The way his fingers ever so slightly pinch the top corner of the cook book page, effortlessly gliding down the backside with a push as he turns it.
The way the flour powders his cheek and nose and backside where he’s obviously unconsciously touched himself as he mixes and measures.
The way his forefinger delicately and evenly slides across the top of the measuring cup to level it and swipe away the extra ingredients.
The way he so fluidly moves around the kitchen, following the recipe from step to step, organizing and arranging, in control.
The way his hands envelope the dough, pushing and folding in rhythm, knuckles and muscles pressing and molding it precisely.
The way his forearms lend strength to his hands, ripples and waves of movement.
The way his shoulder and upper back muscles so swiftly tense and release in knots and threads as his arms work.
His easy patience, waiting for the dough to rise.
The muscular curve of his backside and the clenching of his thighs as he bends to smoothly slide the baking sheet into the oven.
His pride and eagerness to share when the bread comes from the oven, perfectly baked, ready to be devoured.
The bread is heavenly, but I’d rather devour the baker.