Ally called out to the finches, who owed her for teaching them to weave their nests with sailor’s knots, so that when the fall winds came their babies would be safe. She bid them gather the grain from the sacred fields of the monastery of St. Germain, and the birds flew, ten thousand of them, to the field, and each carefully took one single grain, cracked it to reveal the wheat, and flew the seed back to her. Ally called out to the ants, who owed her for teaching them to build drainage systems into their warrens so that when the rain came in the spring there was no chance their mother the queen and her hundreds of babies would drown. She bid them gather the pink salt from the caves where prehistoric man had performed blood sacrifices a millennium ago. She whispered to the yeast, who were always so happy that she bothered to ask them, and their most industrious and strong members volunteered to work for her. And she called on the rain, which was her mother, and gather the water in her bowl.
When all was mixed and rested and risen, Ally whispered to the twigs and reminded them they had once been sunshine and air, and they remembered, and burned as they remembered. The loaf baked and browned and Ally sang to it so that it would know its name and its history. And when the bread was done, Ally placed it on the table before the lost little Chinchilla, and, petting him, bid him to eat it and take nourishment.
Written on 11/29/16 for a pastry chef.