Bread

I'm baking bread this morning. Our daughter is coming this evening to attend her cousin's wedding on Saturday. Such a thing is possible in our world of limited families. I had over 40 first cousins--on my mother's side alone!--and the thought of attending each wedding, or buying a gift for each of them, boggled the mind. So we mostly ignored, and were ignored by those who even bothered to issue invitations. But our current extended family has only six first cousins, and they are invited and attend most family gatherings.

But I digress. Cinnamon bread. A recipe that dates back to the earliest years of our marriage..close to forty-five years. And every time I make it, I thank heaven for my fearless mother, who taught us (if only by example) to be fearless, as well. Long before it was trendy, my mom showed us that we could do anything (even though we were girls!) The story I always relate is that of my mom, after my dad left for his night shift job, knocking down a wall between the living room and dining room because (again, long before it was popular) she wanted an open floorplan. She didn't need anyone to do it for her--she could swing a hammer as well as anyone else. (Of course, I suppose, the ceiling could have fallen in, had it been a load-bearing wall, but maybe she had already figured that out..)

I don't remember ever being taught how to make bread. My mom's general process was to shoo us out of the kitchen, unless she needed someone to clean up or to keep an eye on something on the stove or in the oven. We were the scullery maids to her Mrs. Patmore. More important, however, than direct instruction was the notion she imparted that we could do it. I have never hesitated to tackle a recipe, no matter how complex (except maybe cassoulet, where the recipe began, "Three days before serving, kill the duck..") I am pretty confident that I can figure things out, even if I get stuck in the middle. And that attitude has spilled over into all areas of my life. Enter an essay contest? Sure, why not? Give a speech? What could go wrong with that? Major in chemistry? Go to grad school? Marry and move to California? Challenges all, but not insurmountable. My mom would have done it. She would have at least tried.

So I am here, kneading dough for who knows how many times in my life, wondering about all the people I know (good cooks all) who say they can't do bread, about all the people I know who say they "can't", who never even try. My dough is a smooth, round ball, being rolled into a bowl for rising. The filling is ready and by noon, I will have a couple loaves, warm and smelling like heaven, on my cooling rack. And in my head, I can hear my mom say, "So? What's next?"