The kitchen is the heart beat of my house. Its walls littered with the every knick-knack of memory and youth. Cabinets filled with crayon birthday cards to Mom and Dad, copper cookie cutters in shapes from gingerbread men to moose glimmering, pots hanging thanks to my Dad’s contraption on the ceiling. Flour both contained and free covers the counter tops along with our mixer, bowls, sugar, rice, and spices. Whatever cooks on top of the stove will be the scent for the evening, sticking to our clothes whether we like it or not.
My father is a dedicated baker. It relaxes him. Baking is like an art but with restriction and structure he and I so often crave for with our over active imaginations. He’s shown me everything I know when it comes to baking, his way of passing on the torch, and I am thankful for this gift. We share a love of making bread, because it is like an art as well as the basis for life. Bread can mean everything. Not many people pay attention to this.
Irish soda bread is our preference. It’s crunchy crust and soft, doughy inside makes it perfect for dipping, spreading, or bread pudding making. I love it. So when one day we set to work, I was placed in the driver’s seat for its assembly. The kitchen table, one King Arthur would envy, quickly was littered with flour, bowls, measuring cups, and everything else needed to get this job done. I mixed the dry ingredients and added the wet to it. I plunged my hands into the mix, my fingers webbing together with the sticky goo. Gloves of dough were protecting my hands as I kneaded.
“You’ll have to knead for 15 minutes.” My Dad instructed as I placed the dough on a floured cutting bored.
I moaned at the thought of 15 minutes of nonstop arm work, but knew that the exercise would do me some good. I worked as the mix, but it was sticky, too sticky for dough being kneaded. I could not get it to come together. We dumped a truck load of flour onto, into, and near the dough but it still clung to my fingers like leeches. Dough is supposed to let go and fend for itself. Still I kneaded.
With a minute left the dough still was stubborn. My Dad scanned the recipe to see if anything was left out. Nothing was missing.
“Wait.” My Dad said.
I waited.
“Knead for 30 seconds.”
I looked down at the dough in front of me, tempted to throw it against the wall. How could we miss that? Irish soda bread is kneaded for 30 seconds and BREAD STICKS are kneaded for 15 minutes.
“Well,” my Dad laughed, “Start over.”
That’s bread, if you mess it up there’s nothing to do but to start over. I grabbed a measuring cup and started again. The smell of baking bread was worth it.
3 comments:
That's an interesting way of looking at life...
I liked the graphic visuals you made especially with the table "king Arthur would envy"
I wish you would have explained your statement better when you said that "Bread can mean everything".
Cool. I like to see that people are checking out each other's blogs even without my prompting.
Once again, the description shines in this journal. I'm hungry after reading it, in fact. It's Papa Murphy night in my household and the only thing that compares the heavenly aroma of baking bread is pizza fresh from the oven. (Well, cookie dough and popcorn...) Okay I need to quit reading journals and go eat.
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