He rolls the dough
As I play with the semolina flour
Running my fingers and hands
Through what feels like a silk stream
He stands by the gleaming stainless steel
As torrents of dough roll through
Letting me turn the handle
He makes one adjustment
Then another to the settings
Each time the dough passes through
With arms open he holds long thin sheets
Puts them on the cutting board again
Dusts them with more flour
And sweeps his hand back and forth
Quickly pats it brushing the excess away
Then folds the dough one last time
One more pass through as he turns the crank
And lets me catch the dough as it escapes
Falling into my waiting hands
Liberated and transformed
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Jacob Sugarman
Kerry Lauerman
Salon.com
Comments
Yes, indeed. In this case it was a feast of pasta that I used to make with my grandfather at our home.
V