Breaking Bread Rules: The Magic of Meridine
Breaking Bread Rules: The Magic of Meridine
y husband and I eat one meal a day unless we make bread. All bets are off that day. And we also cut bread directly out of the oven. [Gasp] Horrors upon horrors, this goes against everything a bread recipe will tell you.
Here's the thing about fresh bread - its aroma is an irresistible siren call. Those crusty edges, still crackling from the oven's heat. The steam that rises when you slice through, carrying that yeasty perfume that makes your mouth water. Yes, cutting hot bread might make it gummy. Yes, waiting allows the crumb to set properly. But some culinary pleasures transcend technical perfection.
However, this bread blasphemy happens at a special time, and we do not break that rule. We break our bread at Meridine. That is the special meal only a few know between Lunch and Dinner.
What is Meridine, you might ask? Meridine (meh-ree-DINE) comes from ancient practices of marking day-parts. It's that liminal space between lunch and dinner when time seems to slow, when the afternoon light takes on a golden quality, and when magic feels closest to our ordinary world.
There's something magical about this in-between hour, when the sun hangs suspended between day's zenith and evening's approach. The kitchen fills with golden light, casting long shadows across our flour-dusted counter. It's a time when the veil between ordinary and extraordinary thins, when breaking bread becomes ritual rather than mere sustenance.
Our ancestors understood this hour's significance. While others rush through their afternoon tea or reach for processed snacks, we honor Meridine with the ancient act of breaking warm bread. The steam rises like incense, the crust crackles like whispered secrets, and for a moment, we're connected to every baker who ever lived.
Perhaps it's no coincidence that this sacred hour of Meridine aligns perfectly with bread baking. The dough, having risen through morning and early afternoon, reaches its peak just as the day balances between light and shadow. The timing feels deliberate, as if the universe itself conspires to create perfect bread moments.
The scent of baking bread during Meridine carries differently than at other hours. It wraps around the kitchen like a spell, drawing us into its warm embrace. Each slice reveals steam patterns that dance and swirl in the slanting afternoon light, creating ephemeral art that exists for mere seconds before dissipating.
Many would call us heretics for slicing into hot bread, but they don't understand the significance of Meridine. This isn't just about satisfying hunger or indulging impatience. It's about capturing a moment when time itself seems to pause, when the boundary between ordinary and extraordinary blurs.
The butter melts instantly, creating golden pools that seep into every warm crevice. Honey drips more slowly during Meridine, as if sweetness itself wants to linger. Even the crumbs seem to sparkle with possibility.
Some might say we're romanticizing a simple afternoon snack, but those who know of Meridine understand. It's more than a meal – it's a pause in time's flow, a ritual of warmth and connection. When we break bread at this hour, we're participating in something ancient and profound.
So yes, we'll continue our bread blasphemy, cutting into steaming loaves while traditionalists shake their heads. Because at Meridine, the rules are different. The magic is real. And sometimes, the "wrong" way is exactly right.
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