Bread

I grew up on homemade bread. Every week, my mom would mix a batch that yielded 8 – 10 loaves in her large, aluminum bowl. She would cover it with a clean tea towel and let it rise. That tea towel would be lifted off the brim of the bowl as the dough mounded into a yeasty, airy goodness. Then she would punch it down, getting right in there with her fists. After letting the dough rest, she shaped it into loaves and placed them into the metal bread pans. Taking a fork, she would pierce up and down the length of the loaves in their pan to eliminate any air holes. These loaves were then covered and allowed to rise a second time, and again the dough would rise and mound over the rims of their confinement. After they were baked, Mom would take them from the oven and, tipping the pan sideways, free the loaf and set it on the counter with its counterparts to cool. The last step was to brush the tops with margarine (because there was no butter). I remember being able to do this last step – taking the wooden brush with its yellowed bristles and brushing the tops of the hot loaves. The tiny holes from the fork piercings were baked closed, but left a pattern over the loaf. This bread was an everyday part of my childhood. When we had a loaf of store-bought sandwich bread, I thought it was a real treat.

In the last couple of years, I have been making sourdough bread using starters that were given to me by others. It’s been a journey in learning with lots of help from others and the internet. Many loaves were pitched out the back door for the pooch to gnaw on if he so chose, and I was close to ending my quest for that artisan loaf. But then with some more outside help, I got to know my starter. We became friends and have enjoyed an amiable kinship that has since resulted in loaf after loaf of happy sourdough. We don’t stray from the tried and true at this point, and I still buy a thin-sliced rye from the store, but my sourdough and I, we have a thing.

My starter was overflowing with happiness on this day.

I’ve read that since the corona virus pandemic and the resulting need for physical distancing has impacted our globe, we are baking more bread. Yeast and flour are among the items that have emptied off the shelves. I read a CBC article on this phenomena where Karen Bates, who is studying environmental education and looking at “the relationship between traditional skills and resilience”, suggests that food preparation may often be lost in our economic industrial world and that these days are bringing forth a new appreciation of it.

Bread in all its varying forms is part of most cultures, and there is something grounding and connective about making it from scratch. This is a weekend when “breaking bread” together would typically happen both around altars and around tables (which really are one and the same). The term “breaking bread” hearkens back to that famous last supper when Jesus and his friends shared a meal together. The sharing of bread and wine has since been made into a practice of remembrance. A friend wondered if maybe Jesus simply did not want to be forgotten. “Remember me”. There is a vulnerability, a humility, and a humanity in that request that I find invitational.

Bake bread. Break bread. Eat bread. Remember.

Stay safe, and stay kind, my friends.

There is, of course, more than one way to break bread.

Published by Judy

On the edge of Waterloo county, resting sedately on knoll, is an old stone house looking out towards the Grand River. This stone house and farm has been in my husband's family for years. We have been graced to call this place home for the last thirty years. Our best crop has been our four children. After years of immersing myself in raising and educating our family, the proverbial nest has slowing been emptying, opening up space for me to fill with other pursuits. Both writing and photography have been knit into my everyday living since I was very young. Sharing them is both a bit of a dream and a nightmare. But living small and in fear shrivels up a life. My thoughts are musings on God, aging, family, and simply living. My shelves are lined with books, my baskets are brimming with skeins of yarn, my closet shelves are stacked with apparel, my cellar shelves are chock full of home canning - all testaments to my inclinations. Our journeys are not solitary affairs. As I share bits of my journey with you, I hope you will be enticed to look more closely, listen more attentively, and live with abandon. May God's peace rest on your journey. Judy Mae Naomi

2 thoughts on “Bread”

  1. Willard Brubacher says:

    Judy, you are making me hungry for your good sourdough bread!

    1. Judy says:

      You’ll have to ask Karen to stop by for a loaf!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *