When I was a girl, my mother made all our bread. It took forever to rise and even longer to bake, and while we waited, the scent of it crusting up and browning inside the oven filled the house and tormented me.
I pressed my hands against the oven glass and looked in at the two loaves inside. One was the sacrificial loaf. As soon as the timer went off, we’d cut into that loaf, risking the release of steam that might burn our fingers. Each butter-saturated slice was devoured with absolutely no concern for whether or not it would ruin dinner.
The second loaf was never as good as the first because we were not allowed to touch it until it cooled entirely. That loaf was reserved for sack lunches and breakfast toast, even though the butter didn’t taste as good on breakfast toast as it did on bread fresh from the oven. But it nourished us, body and soul, and that was the most important thing. With three growing children and a husband to feed, my mom felt that day-old bread was a blessing. Two-day-old bread was a miracle.
These memories came back to me today as I mixed up a big batch of dough in my stand mixer. I don’t need to do much more than dump ingredients in and let the mixer run. But sometimes, I like to connect to the process a little more, to remind myself of the earthly necessity of providing for my children and the joy that comes from being able to do it well. So today, I decided to knead the dough myself.
A connection to the common
I took off my rings and put them on the windowsill, just like my mother used to, and the way I imagine her mother did before her. When I was a little girl, I used to wear Mom’s wedding ring while I watched her work. I liked how it carried the warmth of her finger in the heaviness of the gold.
I turned the dough out onto a floury counter the way I had seen her do so many times before. In my mind, I saw her hands covered in dough. But I felt the work of the kneading in my own arms. Sweetly scented yeast and the fragrance of freshly-ground flour connected me to the generations and generations of women who have come before me, an entire lineage of mothers who have served their families in the making of their daily bread.
Sometimes I feel alone in this parenting thing. But not today. Today I felt a part of something bigger.
The children crowded around, observing my work and begging for scraps. I remembered pestering my mother the same way, and how she would give us little bits of dough to work until they were grey, sticky, and completely inedible to anyone but a child.
“If I give each of you a piece, there won’t be anything left to bake!” I said.
My children considered this. I knew what I would have said.
“We don’t care!” they shouted, as if on cue. I gave them each a little piece of dough and noted how quickly the loaves diminished when five children had gotten their share. But some things are worth the memories.
It is a different world now than it was when I was a child, I thought as I waited for the bread to bake. Motherhood is all at once more complicated and less valued than ever before. Sometimes, I don’t think my great-grandmother would understand my struggles very well, and I wouldn’t be able to relate to hers.
But then, I wonder. Perhaps it is more the same than I know. I thought of my mother’s hands, shaping the loaves, and my grandmother’s, and mine. We are, all of us, mothers. We understand what it is to do our best to provide for our children. We are mothers who have lived in different times and under different circumstances but yet we have felt the same heartaches and triumphs that come with trying to raise children to the praise and glory of God.
It is a common loaf we share.
Daily Bread
Whether we feed our children with rice or with wheat, we understand. We are mothers.
On this beautiful day, I am thankful that I am not alone, that I share the common experience of uncommon motherhood with women of every space and time. I am glad to know that I am putting my hands to the work that has been done so well by so many others before me, and that, by the grace of God, will continue to be done by so many after me.
Today, I knead and bake and taste the bread of a thousand dailies, the bread of a thousand generation of mothers who are just like me.
I am from the Wonder Bread generation! No bread baking by my mom. I used to have a bread machine but found that I was the only one eating it so I gave it away. There is nothing, though, like the smell of yeast dough baking.
Brought back memorie slikewise. My parents were missionaries in Africa and so mom baked all our bread. She taught me how but for some reason mine never turned out as good as hers! Many many days our school break snack(we were homeschooled) was fresh bread out of the oven with butter. MMMMMMMMMMm
I know the feeling your talking about! I get that feeling while frying chicken or mixing cookie dough. This is a great post!
My lovely husband bought me a bread machine once and I never used it.! I love the feel of the bread in my hands and the connection to my mother an d grandmother before . such a beautiful post (once again) Thank you!
I love this article – and the connection it gives us with those who’ve gone before us. I remember my grandmother making bread (although when she got older she bought the frozen bread dough because my grandpa liked the texture of that type of bread). And my mom used to make 6 loaves of bread at a time when I was growing up. There is nothing like bread fresh out of the oven!
I have a couple of hints about the storage of bread: The bread that I bake usually raises higher than will fit in a store-bought bread bag so I buy the 2 gallon Ziplock bags because 1 large loaf fits well in that. If I think that the loaf is going to last long enough that it might mold I store it in the fridge. I really try not to do that because to me the bread stales more quickly. (I try to make dried bread cubes or crumbs if I get to that point because then they last indefinitely.) To thaw frozen bread, unzip or open the bag that the bread is in to let in some air and let out any trapped moisture and you should be fine. Also, be sure that the bread was completely cooled before you put it in a bag to freeze or even store on the counter as that prevents any additional moisture. And I’ve found something that I like better than freezing bread that’s already been baked – I take the bread dough after the first rise, shape it and put it in a greased bread pan and put the bread pan with the unraised dough in it into a large ziplock bag and freeze it. Then when I need bread I take it out of the freezer the night before and put it in the fridge. The next morning take it out of the fridge and let it sit on the counter for an hour and then bake as usual. Or take it out of the freezer and set it on the counter and bake in time for supper.
How do you thaw your frozen bread? I found if I try and just take my bag out of the freezer, water condensation makes the bread soggy on the crust (and I worry about mold getting a faster start). I’ve been taking mine out of the bag, wrapping it in a kitchen towel and letting it thaw on the counter. Usually this works fine, but can sometimes give me a drier bread.
Recipe?
Would love to see your recipe, but I don’t see it listed in the recipe page.
That’s strange! I had it there for a long time. I’ll post it again.
Very beautiful and my mom was one of twelve children and grandma Hattie baked bread just like this every single day and homemade bread with apple butter was all mom had to take for her lunch. I love this story and she is 93 in the nursing home and I plan to share this with her today! My thanks for your sharing it! I cried most of the way through the story because the memories are so dear!
Aren’t they dear memories? Such simple thing, baking bread, but it takes me right back to my childhood.
Beautiful! On a practicle note, how do you store your bread to keep it fresh?
Ha–it hardly lasts long enough! I save bread bags from the few times when I buy bread, or if I see an empty one at church, I snag it. If I make extra loaves, I double bag and freeze them, but normally, I don’t need to because we go through it so quickly. In the summer, it tends to mold quickly around here (the Pacific Northwest) so if I have extra I’m not planning to use for a few days, I put it in the fridge.
Nothing tastes like home made bread. Delicious. I and my computer have both been receiving care and attention and I am pleased to say I can now read and comment again. Long may it last…….
It’s nice to “see” you again!