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The Slap

The only time I take off my wedding band is when I am slapping bread dough onto the bench, overarm. Make of that what you will. I scoop the loose ball from the bowl, lay it down gently. Then I curl up a fist like a baby, press it into the soft, forgiving mound, still sticky. My knuckles roll rhythms, warming the dough smooth. Next, a two-handed stretch, a gluten tug-of-war, its strands pulling together like tendons. Then the slap, a weighty handful of dough raised up to shoulder height, a breath, then whump! onto the bench, again and again.

Marie Little lives near fields with her family and writes in the shed with buckets of tea. One day she might finish her children’s novel. Find Marie on Twitter @jamsaucer.

Mother Tongue

Escapade