TASTES LIKE HOME

When I was a kid, my Grandma would sit me, my siblings and my cousins all around her long kitchen table. She would give us each a lump of dough, and let us play and work with it. The dough was for her sweet bread, and when we were done kneading it with our tiny hands, she would bake it. My Grandma always made this bread, a recipe passed down from her mother. She made it for holidays and special occasions, and sometimes for no occasion at all. She would bake it for her six kids, for the families of her six kids, and their kids families. She would even bake it for my friend who lived across the street, just because she knew how much she liked it. For years, that bread was a staple on our kitchen counters. Warmed with butter and a coffee mmmmm (and don’t even get me started on the french toast possibilities).

Those are the days I wish I could go back and relive, or be a fly on the wall just for a little while. My Grandma’s small little abode was never a house and always a home. The kind of place you looked forward to going to, because you knew you were going to see family. I have the strangest glimpses of it branded in my mind. I remember the accordion door in the basement bathroom, and having to scurry passed the cold room nervously because her cat’s eyes would always seem to catch the light and shine at you through the dark. I remember building forts out of bedsheets on her front porch, and using bingo dabbers to stamp our hands for entry. I remember that the garden running along her driveway was always full of snails, and how you couldn’t sit too close to the edge on her backyard benches or they would topple over. I remember the woody smell of the back of the garage, the space that used to belong to my Grandpa.

But the bread… Over the years my memory of this experience has been subconsciously magnified by my childish mind. I remember the kitchen table as being massively long, (even though it most likely wasn’t). I remember the tabletop being worn and smooth like an old cutting board. I remember constantly having to ask for more flour, and sneaking more pieces of dough to eat than probably ever got baked. I remember her always wearing an apron.

For a while it’s been a goal of mine to learn the recipe, but as with any European grandmother… there is no ingredient list lying around, and there are no measurements. If you were to ask my Grandma how much flour the recipe needs she’d tell you that she doesn’t know, she only knows how full her specific red mixing bowl should be. When I asked her how much milk, she answered “Oh, you know, just as much as you think you need.” Ever since I became a mother, my desire for carrying on traditions has been amplified. Memories like that endless kitchen table are the foundation for my happy childhood, and I feel like I have both a privilege and a responsibility to pass it on.

Life was busy with a newborn, but I was determined to master both the sweet bread, and my Nanny’s unparalleled Yorkshire puddings (my Dad’s favourite) while on maternity leave. I was supposed to spend the day with each of them in their apartments, watching and meticulously recording the steps they took to create their masterpieces. We talked about doing it once I was “up for it” with a newborn, then maybe after the holidays, then when the weather got better, and then finally… quarantine intervened. It’s no secret I’ve struggled with this way of life we’ve all been forced into, especially having it come at this particular time in my life. I had (and still do have) big plans for this time at home with my daughter, and have ached at the loss of each one. I feel a small sense of urgency to salvage the experiences that are still possible. So finally, on a rainy weekend, my restlessness had me place a curb side pick-up order at the local grocery store.

I spaced out phone calls with my Grandma, calling her after each attempt and each time I would get a few new breadcrumbs (pun intended). The first attempt resulted in a dense (albeit edible) braided mini loaf that strongly resembled a pretzel. “Oh, you never mentioned eggs, how many?” I just kept baking. “What do you mean you usually triple the recipe, was that measurement of sugar for one loaf or three?” And baking. “How much vanilla did I use? I didn’t know it needed vanilla?” And baking.

Then, as I kneaded the dough I could tell… the familiar smell of yeast, my flour coated hands, they way the braided dough puffed up before even getting them in the oven… I did it. (Yes, them, plural). Turns out the recipe was for three loaves, but I didn’t really mind because it meant I got to share. I drove it to my Mom’s to be the official judge and I wanted to cry watching the nostalgia light up her face as she took her first bite. With all that’s going on we haven’t been seeing my Grandma, so my Mom delivered her some. Getting that phone call from her, knowing that I’d actually done it… was overwhelming. I became obsessed, baking loaf after loaf, and spending the next weekend driving around with Lou delivering it to our family.

It’s all overwhelming. I can’t help but wonder that if quarantine hadn’t slowed down the world, would I have made the time for it? I know I wanted to do it, but what else would have come up to distract me from it. Would I have kept trying batch after batch until I got it right? Or would I eventually have lost interest and been swept away at the idea of an afternoon wandering around Homesense with a Starbucks? (Which sounds lovely by the way).

I had originally planned to share the recipe, and maybe some day I will. But I just can’t bring myself to right now, it just doesn’t feel like it’s mine to share. The magic that comes with something you can’t have all the time, is so rare in the world we live in. So much is at out fingertips, (or can be in under 24 hours, thank you Amazon Prime). I think that was the best part about it as a kid, walking into your kitchen and seeing that foil wrapped loaf on the counter was a treat. I want to sit Lou and her cousins around a table and give them a lump of dough and a pile of flour. I want it to keep its magic.

Her 89th birthday is just around the corner, and when my arms turn to jello from kneading I think of how many times her arms did the same. She’s such a beautiful and strong woman, in the simplest way. The kind of grandmother they talk about in children’s books; almost too sweet to be real. I can’t wait for all this to pass so I can be with both of my grandmothers again, sipping coffee on a Saturday afternoon while they argue about who gets to pay for it.

I still want to go to my Grandma’s and bake it with her, when we can. But for now, I’m just grateful for the gift this quiet, slow-paced world gave me. It hasn’t been easy to find the positives in the circumstances we’re in, but this one is tangible to my heart.

Next up, Yorkshire pudding.