I bake with antiquity resting on the threshold of a knuckle.
The engraved image of Ceres flashes like a tiny bronze minnow when I blend honey-water with flour using fastidiously clean hands. The 2,000-year-old Roman ring disappears into the ancient marriage of wet and dry, clinking gently against the base of my ceramic Bean Nighe cauldron as the beginnings of bread slip through my mushroom-tranced fingers.
As I knead, She reappears amongst gluten strands and frankincense smoke. My mind wanders as the slightly-too-large ring shifts upside-down, leaving stamped impressions of the goddess on the surface of dough as I work. What was the original motive for this ring? Did the owner ever bake bread? Did the owner ever bake bread wearing this ring? What if the original motive for this two thousand-year-old ring was this moment, right now?
Entheogen-induced ruminations and multiple depictions of Ceres are rhythmically incorporated into the dough as I knead, creating layers upon layers of devotional purpose. With a pair of hands and a ring, I entwine two separate worlds two millennia apart, because when I bake, I bake with antiquity resting on the threshold of a knuckle.