I brought my mom to class today

I had such a good day today. I woke up at 5 a.m., drove to school and arrived in time to walk down to the coffee shop with a classmate and grab a coffee. Cafe Zing in Porter Square in Cambridge sells great coffee, coffee drinks and tea. I'm very fond of cold-brewed iced coffee and they make it there ... and it's lovely.
On the way back to school, we found a dozen red roses in a box on the street, clearly abandoned, and grabbed one to bring to our chef instructor.
Once in class, we made bread: cheddar cheese bread, challah, bagels, cinnamon swirl bread, white pullman, baguettes, herbed-olive rolls and a beer bread. We also made a butternut squash soup and zucchini-spinach salad, so that we had something to eat today besides bread. 
After class, a few of us went to visit Penzey's Spice Shop in Arlington, recommended by one of our chef instructors. We bought nutmeg, Vietnamese cinnamon, cardamom pods, vanilla beans and flavored salts.
On the way back to Cambridge we decided to stop for milkshakes and do some studying together. My new friends are bright and talented. We are from all walks of life. On paper, we don't have much in common. In the kitchen, we have everyone in common. We cheer each other on, we help each other out and we laugh a lot.
Today, I felt so much joy being in the kitchen. It wasn't all about my classmates or the sunshine outside. It wasn't just about the cute little baby who went by in a stroller and waved to me. And it wasn't just about the lovely loaves of bread we produced.
Today, I felt my mom's presence so strongly. My mother taught me to make bread. Her recipe made nine loaves, and that's what we made. It was a basic white bread recipe. We would take some bread to the neighbors, make one pan of dinner rolls, freeze some and eat the rest. I remember the big yellow bowl we used to let the bread rise. It had pink and blue rings around the outside. I remember the various pans we used to bake the bread. She would teach me how to shape the loaves, how to tuck them into the pans. I remember the smell of the kitchen, the warmth, the quiet.
But what came to me so magically today was the simple, sweet meditation of kneading the dough. I could hear her talking to me, showing me how to push the dough away with the heels of my hands, how to fold it over, how to sprinkle a little more flour on it, turn it and push it away again.
Many of the students today knew how to knead bread dough. It's not hard to learn, but it takes practice. It's not just about learning how to knead, but also about how to read the dough.
There were about 10 minutes today when I was kneading my dough and I just felt everything else fall away. It felt as if I was back in that little kitchen on Martin Street with my mom making bread, with the big yellow bowl and the sweet smell of the yeast filling the air.
When my mother taught me how to make bread she couldn't possibly have known what a loving, wonderful, magical gift it was. I know I didn't.