The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“The more you work the dough, the better the bread will be,” says Iris, coming over to the table with a smile. “Can you feel it becoming warm and elastic in your hands?”

I look at the dough in my fingers, but I can’t connect with it. I can’t feel what she wants me to. My senses aren’t plugged in. My mind is skittering about like a squirrel on ice.

I start kneading again, harder than before, trying to capture it. I want to find that contentment I had last time I was here, that feeling of simplicity and earthiness. But I keep losing my rhythm, cursing in frustration as my fingers catch on the dough. My upper arms are aching; my face is sweating. And the turmoil inside me is only getting worse.

How dare they wipe me out? I was a good lawyer.

I was a good fucking lawyer.

“Would you like a rest?” Iris comes over and touches my shoulder. “It’s hard work when you’re not used to it.”

“What’s the point?” My words shoot out before I can stop them. “I mean, what’s the point of all this? Making bread. You make it and you eat it. And then… it’s gone.”

I break off abruptly, not quite knowing what’s come over me. I don’t feel totally on top of myself.

Iris gives me a careful look.

“You could say the same of all food,” she points out gently. “Or life itself.”

“Exactly.” I rub my forehead with my apron. “Exactly.”

I don’t know what I’m saying. Why am I picking a fight with Iris? I must calm down.

“I think that’s enough kneading,” she says, taking the dough from me and patting it into a round shape.

“Now what?” I say, trying to speak more normally. “Shall I put it in the oven?”

“Not yet.” Iris places the dough back in the bowl and puts it on top of the stove. “Now we wait.”

“Wait?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, wait?”

“We wait.” She pops a tea towel over the bowl. “Half an hour should do it. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

“But… what are we waitings/or?”

“For the yeast to rise and work its magic on the dough.” She smiles. “Underneath that towel, a small miracle is happening.”

I look at the bowl, trying to think miracles. But it isn’t working. I can’t feel calm or serene. My body is wound up too far; every nerve is hopping with tension. I used to be in control of my time to the minute. To the second. And now I’m supposed to wait for yeast? I’m supposed to stand here, in an apron, waiting for a...fungus?

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “I can’t do it.” I head for the kitchen door and out into the garden.

“What?” Iris comes after me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this!” I wheel round. “I can’t just…just sit around patiently, waiting for yeast to get its act together.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s such a waste of time!” I clutch my head in frustration. “It’s such a waste of time. All of it!”

“What do you think we should be doing instead?” she asks with interest.

“Something… important. OK?” I walk to the apple tree and back again, unable to keep still. “Something constructive.”

I glance at Iris, but she doesn’t seem offended.

“What’s more constructive than making bread?”

Oh, God. I feel an urge to scream. It’s OK for her, with her hens and her apron and no wrecked career on the Internet.

“You don’t understand anything,” I say, close to tears. “I’m sorry, but you don’t. Look… I’ll just leave.”

“Don’t leave.” Iris’s voice is surprisingly firm. The next moment she’s in front of me, placing her two hands on my

shoulders, looking at me with her penetrating blue eyes.

“Samantha, you’ve had a trauma,” she says in kind, even tones. “And it’s affected you very deeply—”

“I haven’t had a trauma!” I wheel away, out of her grasp. “I just… I can’t do this, Iris. I can’t pretend to be this. I’m not a bread maker, OK? I’m not a domestic goddess.” I look around the garden desperately, as though searching for clues. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I have no bloody idea.”

A single tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away roughly. I’m not going to cry in front of Iris.

“I don’t know who I am.” I exhale, more calmly. “Or what my goal is… or where I’m headed in life. Or anything.”

My energy’s gone and I sink down on the dry grass. A few moments later Iris comes and squats down beside me.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her voice soft. “Don’t beat yourself up for not knowing all the answers. You don’t always have to know who you are. You don’t have to have the big picture, or know where you’re heading. Sometimes it’s enough just to know what you’re going to do next.”

For a while I let her words run through my head, like cool water on a headache.

“And what am I going to do next?” I say at last, with a hopeless shrug.

“You’re going to help me shell the beans for lunch.” She’s so matter-of-fact that I half smile in spite of myself.

Meekly, I follow Iris into the house, then collect a big bowl of broad beans and start splitting the pods as she shows me. Pods into a basket on the floor. New broad beans into the basin. Over and over and over.

I become a little calmer as I immerse myself in my task. I

never even knew broad beans came from pods like this. To be honest, my total experience of broad beans has been picking them up in a plastic-covered packet from Waitrose, putting them in my fridge, taking them out a week after

the sell-by date, and throwing them away.

But this is the real thing. This is what they’re like, dug straight out of the ground. Or… picked off the bush. Whatever it is.

Each time I split one open it’s like finding a row of pale green jewels. And when I put one in my mouth, it’s like—

Oh, OK. It needs to be cooked.

Yuck.

When I’ve finished the beans we return to the dough, kneading it into loaves. We put the loaves into special tins and then have to wait another half hour for them to rise again. But somehow this time I don’t mind. I sit at the table with Iris,