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There is a mystical and illusive concept, a day so perfect that it defies the borders of reality, hidden in the odd fiber of our lives, where the ordinary often dances with peculiarity. Try to picture a day in which your alarm clock never rings, every cup of coffee tastes utterly incredible, and the very air you breathe is imbued with the harmonious symphony of happiness.
Most individuals would describe their ‘ideal day’ as finally winning the lottery or by mentioning some other joyful occurrence, such as purchasing their dream car. If I were to characterize this event, I would be absolutely ecstatic to receive a sack of flour, a humble ingredient produced by milled grains that holds immense responsibility for shaping my individuality—the key element to my ‘perfect day.’
Had it not been for flour, one of my most valued memories could not have stood the test of time, losing itself within the realm of my consciousness. Had it not been for flour, I could have forgotten by now the excitement I felt whenever I would bake bread with my great-grandmother, something that I could relive repeatedly during such ‘a perfect day.’ In an ideal world, her rooster would crow to awaken me as the sun rose and timid rays of sunlight peaked through the tiny window of her traditional Romanian home. My bare feet would find themselves touching the uneven floor, running towards the cramped kitchen.
Witnessing my perfect day unfold, I could run my hand over the wooden handle of the kitchen’s door and push it ajar as the strong smell of freshly-baked bread would fill the room. My great-grandmother’s silhouette would stand gracefully against the table, her delicate hands covered with flour and a lively smile present on her face. She would laugh gracefully, with wrinkles highlighting her cordial features. I could indulge in her embrace, allowing myself to be painted in the magic ingredient that wove our hearts together.
As the bread baked in the old, coal-fired oven, her hand would run through my hair as she talked about the process of obtaining a smooth dough. In that fleeting, fragrant embrace of freshly baked bread, I find myself transported to that unforgettable morning, reliving the magic of this particular recollection with my grandmother.
My ideal day has a sack of flour at its core, not as a mundane ingredient but as an embodiment of love, memories, and unbreakable familial bonds. It serves as a reminder that perfection is not found in the grand or extravagant, but in the simple and profound moments that shape our lives and define who we are.
