There are two things that are unmistakable about home made bread: 1) There is nothing else like it in the world and 2) it unlocks a path down memory lane that is filled with nothing but fond, beautiful memories of my mom.
I started this blog in January of this year and those of you who have been reading it for at least a few months now (huge assumption that anyone reads this blog regularly), know that I’m a sentimental (sappy) kinda guy. It’s what happens to dads who grew up with fun, interesting people; a guy who now has a great life, a loving wife and awesome kids.
They say that there are certain nouns that trigger memory. The rain on cement might remind you of sitting indoors playing board games for hours with your family or friends as a storm rolls in. Cotton candy and kettle corn may always remind you of trips to Disneyland. Driving down an old country highway may conjure up images of driving to grandmas house.
So when our friends Kira and Max brought us a loaf of freshly baked home made bread last night I sat there and stared at it for a few minutes. Weird, I know but that’s what happens when you get old and you have too much to think about.
I had distant memories of my mom baking bread in that old, unattractive Kenmore electric oven in our home in West Jordan. Mom’s have always been busy and if you don’t believe that, sit your grandmother down and ask her to tell you what a typical day was like for her when she ran her own house as a young wife while juggling work, church and community activities at the same time. Now sit your mom down and repeat the scenario. Do you see any similarities? Yeah, the times may have changed but the role of a mother never does.
Anyway, mom’s bread was legendary. We had people driving great distances just to get a slice. Mom once made the mistake of taking a few loaves to church and she nearly started a brawl. That’s how good that bread was.
But it wasn’t all about the moist slices that melted the butter and warmed the jam and drove your senses wild with every bite. It was also about love. Nothing said “I love you” more definitively than a fresh batch of home made bread. Mom would spend hours mixing the fresh ingredients, kneading dough and placing the dough into individual bread pans. We would count down the hours and minutes, watching the dough rise, then anticipating the moment when mom pulled the loaves out of the oven to cool on a kitchen counter.
I think the love and careful consideration that went into making and baking each one of those loaves of bread is what made it taste even better. Super Mom makes bread now too and its every bit as special for my sons as it was for me when I was a kid.
So thanks Kira and Max for the wonderful bread and for bringing back the memories of mom’s kitchen. It’s been worth every single, delicious bite.