Dough Decides Its Time

Every so often a job turns into something more than a job.

Last week I made pizzas for a client’s poetry gathering — the kind of night where people actually read their work out loud, no pretense, just words and wine and good company. When he came to the counter, we got to talking. Somewhere between the boxes and the table, he mentioned haiku, and it sent me back — way back — to some half-remembered lesson from grade school. Five syllables, seven, five. Count it out on your fingers. I hadn’t thought about that in years.

He sent me something after, and it stuck with me. So I started digging a little — not just the syllable rules, but what a haiku’s actually supposed to do. Turns out there’s more to it than counting beats. It’s about a single moment, held still long enough to actually look at it.

I make dough for a living. Turns out dough has a lot to say about moments like that.

So here’s my stab at it:

I don’t rush the dough
my hands just wait for its cue—
this is the whole job

Some days it’s ready
some days I give it more time—
I’ve made peace with that

They ask why I wait
I say the dough is talking—
I just know to listen

Years taught me this much:
the dough decides, not the clock—
I just shape the yes