Moments

    The nearly invisible smoke curls against my eyes, forcing them to squeeze shut, watering, to lessen the sting, but I force them to stay open in a half-squint, since I am pushing my head towards six-hundred degree bricks.  A few centimeters closer, I sniff.  The scent of smoke comes strongly.  Not as painful as the sharp cut of it against my protesting eyes, the smell, sweet and ashy, turns my stomach slightly.  Pulling away from the dry heat into the damp air that foretells more rain to come, I settle myself against the two level extension of smooth, white cement that serves as a counter.  The rough reddish rock, which we hauled back from the desert on one of many trips, catches my attention.  Thin edges line the curve of the oven door, each rock cut into a corner to fit over the unfinished cement base, mortared to another thin piece on the left and on the right.  The shades shift dark, light, in-between.  The corners are an odd kite shape, molded from black cement and polished down to show bits of granite and marble that were mixed in before it had a chance to set. 
    I glance back inside the oven.  The half-sheet pan is pushed up close against the coals that are still glowing in the back of the oven, but the near edge still emerges slightly.  The radiant heat manages to reach the crackers on this part of the pan, but unevenly.  I rotated the pan, now the crackers nearest me look golden and inviting.  I count aloud, sixty seconds, watching as the parchment paper dimples more deeply around each individual cracker, as they bubbled at the edges, then suddenly swell as the infinitesimal amount of baking powder inside reacts with the waves of heat rushing against the dough.   Each bit of cheese melts and the edges of the crackers soften, then harden again as the cheese turns to a crisp lace. 
    Rolled to a fragile thinness and cut into undersized shapes, it only takes a few minutes before they threaten to burn and I pull them out.  The gloves, heavy orange work gloves, are waterlogged from being left in the rain, but the heat of the pan is threatening to burn my fingers before I reach the door.  I rush up to the picnic table, sliding the hot pan quickly down onto the wood.  The glass patio door slides open as I lean my weight on the handle.  Bagheera slips herself around my ankles, seizing the chance to make it into the warm house.  The dog, rather than go after the cat, lays in the doorway and I step over her with care, lifting the hot pan through and managing to set it on the stovetop before my fingers begin to blister. 
    Each cracker is a different shape, diamonds, squares, miniature hearts, specked with dozens of poppy seeds.  Lined up on the sheet, they begin to flatten and brittle as they cool.  I snatch one up and set it in my mouth.  I taste butter, I smell the cheese, for a moment.  Then the cracker is gone. 
    The oven took months to build.  We dug down into the ground to make the foundation secure, there were hours spent driving to and from the desert bring back loads of the rock that now covers the outside decoratively.  My father built a mobile insulated screen so that he could work on in during the coldest months of the year.  I learned how to make the best cracker dough in bakery classes during my three semesters in the culinary program.  I learned to enjoy cooking and baking through working with my mother and father in the kitchen.
    All of the knowledge that it took to build that oven, all of the care it took to mix the dough, all of the memories, all of the barely noticed details, all connect here, in this moment.  And this moment, in turn, will become a memory to connect with the future.