Every Saturday morning, my grandmother Olimpia would wake up very early to bake bread that would be shared with  the whole family on the coming week. She used a wood-fired oven, hand-built by my grandfather from bricks and clay. During festive times my grandmother used to bake alongside bread, cozonac (similar to babka) and pies.

I can still picture her hands mixing water and flower, kneading the dough religiously every Friday evening. On Saturday she would fire her clay oven and gently transfer the dough into separate containers. By the time we woke up, the bread was ready to come out. The smell of the freshly baked bread was magical, as was the sound of its crust. The taste. My grandmother Olimpia’s hands. Her voice. Her teachings.

Now, years later, I find myself trying my own bread making. I started a couple of years ago with yeast trying  different recipes and methods, now I made my own sourdough starter. I knead dough as often as I can. There’s something deeply healing about pressing my hands into the soft flour and water mixture. It soothes my mind and eases my worries, lifting the weight of stress and depression. This simple, ancient practice reminds me of my grandmother Olimpia, her bread, the comfort and love she kneaded into each bread she made, her teachings that she passed onto us, her grandchildren.