The fresh, sour, living scent filled her senses as she poured the last of the starter onto the last of the wheat.
She’d soaked the flour with a mix of wine and water. They would miss the wine at dinner but the yeast would feast on it, and the bread taste better for it.
Her uncle taught her to conserve and stretch as long as possible, so they would never be left with nothing. And she had tried.
But her mother said: ‘Better to feast and be satisfied with the last meal. When everything is gone, either more will come, or it won’t. The memories of the feast will nourish us until the end.’
Her fingers sank into the living mixture in her bowl, over and over and over again. The texture changed and stretched and grew and shrank, to grow again. Time worked its magic.
She baked it over the embers of her mother’s bedside table. The drawer and the treasures it contained were still hidden under the bed.
It smelled divine. They ate it and drank the last of the wine mixed with water. There wasn’t a crumb left. The stories they told with their bellies full made them laugh and look at one another fondly.
Time will work its magic. Either more will come, or it won’t.