No one writes it down—you just learn by watching, by doing, by feeling when the dough is ready. There's something sacred about that, I think. Knowledge passed through hands, not through words.

When I come home for Christmas, the first thing I do is bake bread with my mother. Our hands work in silence. We know the rhythm. The warmth of the kitchen is a prayer in itself. 🙏

Outside, the snow falls on fields that have fed our family for generations. Inside, we're making something that will nourish us through the winter. That's how we live here. We work with what God has given us, and we give thanks.

The bread tastes different when you make it this way—with intention, with memory, with love woven into every fold. My city friends don't understand when I try to explain it. But that's because they've lost something that we still have in the village.

When we break bread at Christmas, we're not just eating. We're continuing something ancient and true. 🌾

Anna