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Mom Bread

Mom Bread

I do derive a sort of primitive satisfaction through providing food for my family, and I have ample opportunities at present to do so.

Early in the shut in, I was unable to find any decent bread and decided to make my own. I started with honey wheat. The product was leaden, underproved, and raw in the middle. Paul Hollywood would have gagged. No, Paul Hollywood would not have let it pass his lips.

My kids loved it.

Eyeing my few remaining yeast packets and not finding any in the store–though a one-pound bag was available through Amazon if only I could wait a month–I decided to create a yeast starter. I figured this could be my forever yeast source and went on to attempt herb bread and then a repeat of the honey wheat loaves.

During each rise, the dough needed multiple hours to heft its glutinous flab to a semi-upright position despite my cheerleading. Picture Toad in Arnold Lobel’s story “The Garden,” and you will have it about right.

These loaves were likewise leaden and underproved but had at least become fully cooked. I didn’t know that starter is meant to be used in addition to dry yeast.

No matter. My kids loved them.

Bread had begun to repopulate the shelves of my local Safeway but by now my children (22 and 25!) were requesting “Mom Bread.” I found myself both puzzled and flattered.

So. I’ve continued my pandemic baking.

I decided to actually READ the bread instructions. An angel dropped a one-pound bag of yeast on my door step. After several months of use, I have somehow discovered that I have a Proof setting on my new oven. Thanks to the convergence of these fortuitous happenings, I have just produced something called bread.

Real bread!

This post courtesy of my 4:30 telehealth client who didn’t show up and didn’t respond to my call or email.

 

 

Rule # 6: Food is Love

Rule # 6: Food is Love

We called my mom “Farm Wife.” She really knew how to cook. Still does. Mom so enjoys our enjoyment of her excellent dishes. She got her name because no matter how much we requested, the portion we received was inevitably trucker sized. Whenever my sister and I eat with her and it comes to serving a cake or pie, we act this out:

“How big a slice would you like?”

“Just a sliver.”

“How’s this?” (Holding the knife in just the right place to deliver the dainty smidgeon.)

“Yes.”

“Ok, dear. Here you go.” (Turning the knife at the last minute to loudly whack off ΒΌ of the dessert.)

An addendum to this rule should be Butter. Mom is a believer! Butter on beans; butter on carrots; butter on broccoli; butter on corn; butter on potatoes; butter on bread, butter on sandwiches, toast, muffins, bagels, and biscuits. Mom would have loved my college friend Petter Jorstad, who taught me about banana and butter sandwiches. Is this a Norwegian thing or was the guy a genius?

This post is part of Family Rules. For the prior post, click here. For the next post, click here.

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