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.
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.
