One of my New Year's resolutions for 2009 was to bake bread instead of buy it. Unlike most of my resolutions, I have actually kept this one and am pretty proud of myself, especially since there were many times when I was morning sick that I really didn't feel up to it but did it anyway. I have to say that my greatest source of motivation on those days was my mother.My mom has made bread for our family since she got married. It was one of those things I didn't think anything of when I was young because I saw it all the time and thought it was something all mothers did. As I got older, I learned to appreciate it more. But at first my appreciation was only for how delicious it tasted. Nothing in the world was so appealing to the senses as the sight, smell, and taste of fresh, warm wheat bread! I remember so many times coming home tired and discouraged from a long day of school, opening the door and finding myself enveloped by that warm aroma. On those days, mom's homemade bread was more than just a yummy after-school snack; it was...How can I describe it? It somehow represented all that was unchanging, familiar, and comforting about home. In my teenage world where there were so many variables and changes and things that didn't make sense, home was my refuge--my anchor. And the smell of warm bread at the door was like a welcoming voice saying, "You're home! This will always be here."
During my teenage years, I think I started to realize that homemade bread was something special that not everyone had. I started to think of it more as a tradition.
Whenever new people moved into our neighborhood growing up, Mom and Dad always made a point of taking the family to visit them. Mom always had a fresh loaf of bread to give them. Again, that didn't strike me as anything unusual at the time. In fact, I probably sometimes wondered to myself, "Why can't we ever bring something cool...like cookies or something?" But now I realize what a special and wonderful tradition it was, and I can imagine a little better now how warm a gesture it must have seemed to those new families. And the first time I took a fresh loaf of my own homemade bread to one of our neighbors, I also began to sense the fulfillment my mom must have felt over the years.
Don't get me wrong. I don't imagine my mother experienced a warm, fuzzy feeling every time she made bread. And I bet there were days when she didn't even feel like doing it. But she did, and I never remember her complaining. I wish I'd thanked her more. However, keeping her in mind on the days when I don't feel like doing something--whether it's making bread or cooking dinner or just getting up in the morning to take care of our family--has helped me learn to do hard things.....or easy things on the hard days....and do them cheerfully.
However, I really do get enjoyment most of the time from making bread. One of the things I enjoy is the opportunity it gives me to reflect on things. Sometimes I prop up a hymnbook and memorize some of my favorite hymns. Other times I just let my mind wander. But almost every time, at some point, my thoughts turn to my mom.
I see myself as a little kid, playing in the kitchen while she had the wheat grinder going. I liked the sound of it. I picture my mother's sweet face, glistening in sweat, her strong forearms (which I wish I'd inherited) covered in flour dust as she worked. I recall countless conversations with her, exchanged through the gap between cabinets and counter-top as I sat on a stool in the adjacent dining room, elbows propped up on the counter to support my chin. Some great teaching moments happened then, as I watched my mother knead bread and listened to her. I appreciate so much that she always took the time to teach, no matter what she was doing. And although I probably didn't realize it until later, she was teaching me not only through her words but through her hands, which were always busy doing something to serve others, usually our family.
As I've reflected on this tradition, it has made me think of other traditions my parents established in our home which I want to carry on in my own family. It's also made me reflect on what kind of traditions I want to start. Erik and I love the idea of our kitchen being a kind of "gathering place" for our kids and having the tradition of cooking together. Maybe it's good that we're starting out with two girls who can set the example and show their younger siblings that helping in the kitchen can be fun!
I try to encourage Abigail to join me whenever I'm making meals or baking things. She doesn't need much encouragement, though. She loves to be involved.
These pictures remind me of one of Abigail's favorite stories of late, "The Little Red Hen." Abigail loves to point out on each page that the cat, the dog, and the pig are not helping, but the Little Red Hen's chicks are!
Don't get me wrong. I don't imagine my mother experienced a warm, fuzzy feeling every time she made bread. And I bet there were days when she didn't even feel like doing it. But she did, and I never remember her complaining. I wish I'd thanked her more. However, keeping her in mind on the days when I don't feel like doing something--whether it's making bread or cooking dinner or just getting up in the morning to take care of our family--has helped me learn to do hard things.....or easy things on the hard days....and do them cheerfully.
However, I really do get enjoyment most of the time from making bread. One of the things I enjoy is the opportunity it gives me to reflect on things. Sometimes I prop up a hymnbook and memorize some of my favorite hymns. Other times I just let my mind wander. But almost every time, at some point, my thoughts turn to my mom.
I see myself as a little kid, playing in the kitchen while she had the wheat grinder going. I liked the sound of it. I picture my mother's sweet face, glistening in sweat, her strong forearms (which I wish I'd inherited) covered in flour dust as she worked. I recall countless conversations with her, exchanged through the gap between cabinets and counter-top as I sat on a stool in the adjacent dining room, elbows propped up on the counter to support my chin. Some great teaching moments happened then, as I watched my mother knead bread and listened to her. I appreciate so much that she always took the time to teach, no matter what she was doing. And although I probably didn't realize it until later, she was teaching me not only through her words but through her hands, which were always busy doing something to serve others, usually our family.
As I've reflected on this tradition, it has made me think of other traditions my parents established in our home which I want to carry on in my own family. It's also made me reflect on what kind of traditions I want to start. Erik and I love the idea of our kitchen being a kind of "gathering place" for our kids and having the tradition of cooking together. Maybe it's good that we're starting out with two girls who can set the example and show their younger siblings that helping in the kitchen can be fun!
I try to encourage Abigail to join me whenever I'm making meals or baking things. She doesn't need much encouragement, though. She loves to be involved.
These pictures remind me of one of Abigail's favorite stories of late, "The Little Red Hen." Abigail loves to point out on each page that the cat, the dog, and the pig are not helping, but the Little Red Hen's chicks are!
My helpful little "chick." She has really enjoyed watching the wheat grinder at work since I got it back in May (from my grandpa's barn, where it had been stored--brand new--for 30 years! It was a little dusty but works beautifully!) I have consciously tried to make our bread-making a good bonding experience for us by giving her some latitude to participate. Sometimes it's a little hard, but I just remind myself of how much I want her to have fond memories of our time in the kitchen together.
Keeping that in mind has really helped me not stress out as much or insist that things are done my way. It's helped me keep things in perspective and focus on enjoying being with her. Now it's easier for me to smile when she insists that we need every measuring utensil out on the counter and laugh when she tries to pinch off more of my dough (I always give her her own little portion when it's time to knead) because she needs to make "little baby ones" for her big "mommy one."
And I try to be patient when she asks for more flour every thirty seconds for her teeny piece of dough that's already caked in it.
I try to explain it, but she still doesn't understand why, after an hour, the dough in my bowl has risen while hers, which she has carefully placed in a measuring cup and covered with a napkin, is still just as stiff and flat as before. 
I love this stage. There's just something very satisfying in seeing the loaves all lined up, perfectly risen, ready to go into the oven.
Mmm....Thanks for this special tradition, Mom. And many more...
1 comment:
Wow, L'Anita! I'm impressed! I tried to make bread the other day, but it didn't work out so well (didn't rise). Guess I'll try again and think of you as my motivation! :)
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