I remember the stone bread sculpted from raw earth, pebbles, granite, rock, steel, stone and iron and the breath of Ariel drawn from the wind weighed 200 pounds each loaf, the 4 foot ten inch woman lifted gingerly the cardamom load, her arms instantly bulging enormous biceps, triceps to place the leaden loaves lovingly as newborns into the furnace oven, small and reminiscent of that hunger which carved every line in those rough hewn hands and face. Hunger had made her small, wiry and leathery as a Sequoia tree, impermeable, implacable. Vestiges of famine looked back down upon me when slowly and suddenly a bright aroma wafted like a song from heaven's choir, creeping a timid cat atmosphere of cardamom, ginger, caraway, salt, yeast, sorghum, molasses, sugar, soy and oat. The oven of itself open-sesame burst wide-open revealing the entire wheat fields of Kansas, the plains of Mars, and stony Småland, and even redeemed Sodom and Gomorrah now penitent in the imminent appeasement of wolfish, insatiable, gnawing hunger that had trampled cruel like Charles Twelfth armies forever over and inside the empty caverns of pleading stomach. Siren scents, drawing in the heavy steps of Grampa, still strong as an ox, gorilla built, chiseled himself from stone, made human and incarnate by the smell of that bread, long since his youth spent in the stone desert of Småland, working for the baron, field hard-labor, empty stomach, cheap snuff bought with blood money wages to kill that spirit within that demands begs and craves nourishment just to remain human, biceps like loaves juggled the 100 pound cement-bags, one in each hand he picked like daisies, mortar-mixed on his bread- leaven hod-palette, carried two-hundred pounds three more rickety ladder stories high to sculpt walls, walkways and wonders to be ignored in everyday life, taken for granted what hunger plastered, painted and covered within until now, not want wasting one atomic crumb forever. That’s how I remember grandmother's bread, comforting like the midnight angel of mercy that led her out of the forest in Skåne, fleeing abuse at the baron's manor in 1895 to baking us bread, bread that I still savor and smell.