The children, and the adults as well, quickly entered the spirit of the
story. When, with elaborate motions, I drew forth baking pans and
supplies from an imaginary cupboard and placed them on a phantom
work table, they did. When I cracked pretend-eggs into an enormous
bowl that wasn't really there, they did. Together, we vigorously mixed
the invisible ingredients, dumped, floured, and kneaded the phantom
mess, centered it on the ghostly table, and raised our arms grandly above
our heads and touched fingertips high up to match the height to which
our magic dough had risen. Solemnly, we pounded the non-existent
lump flat, cut it into unseen chunks, and rolled each chunk into an
invisible branch. Watching closely as I solemnly went about it, each
child braided their three symbolic branches into their personal loaf,
placed it in the shadow oven, and drew it out a moment later, sniffing the
fragrance of freshly baked bread.
Faces reflecting their deep concentration, the children were involved.
Elders and youngsters had shared an experience, and it had been good.
Having worked up our appetites, we were also ready for lunch.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77