I came home from rehearsal last night and pounced on the last few slices of homemade bread in the cabinet. Sometimes ya gotta eat.
My mom made all our bread when I was growing up. I remember climbing on a kitchen stool to help her grease the bread pans when I was three or four. I remember telling her, when I was six, that I would gladly eat nothing but homemade bread and butter for the rest of my life.
She insisted on a few vegetables and some protein, but I could tell she understood.
Mom turned out loaf after loaf of delicious bread for church suppers, teacher gifts, and heavenly lunchbox sandwiches. (I made a friend for life in second grade by sharing my ham sandwich with her.) All three of her children learned to bake from her, and my nephew carries on the tradition.
The bread I devoured last night was the end of a batch Mom and I made a few days ago. I inherited her old mixing bowl and bread pans when she moved to assisted living, and as I put them out on my kitchen counter, she greeted them like old friends. “My bowl! My pans! Oh, this feels so good!”
I get it. Making bread is great therapy. It’s tactile. It takes effort. And the results are delicious. All your troubles disappear into the dough you’re kneading, and then burn away in the oven, transforming into an aroma that makes your house a home.
No low-carb diets for me. Man may not live on bread alone, but I can’t live without it.