The Chicken

Near the end of her life, my grandmother loved chickens.

No grand reason. She just loved them. Their quiet routines. The way they showed up everyday without hurry or explanation. She had lived a long, capable life, and in that season she seemed drawn to things that were simple, living, and honest.

This bread is made with that same intention. Not to impress. Not to rush. Just to do the work well, over and over, and trust that it’s enough.

The chicken is to remember her.

And to remind me why I bake this way.

—LouLee