Homemade Bread

Most people have memory triggers….a sound, a scent or a taste that transports you to another time and place. There are few things that evoke  such a strong memory for me as the smell of freshly baked bread. It is an aroma that brings me back to my childhood.

Saturday was baking day and each week,  bread, rolls and biscuits were lovingly crafted in our small, country kitchen.  My mother would rise early, as we slumbered on, the hum of the furnace the only sound in the comfortable silence.  In the soft morning light,  she would gather her ingredients, the dented, old flour bin creaking as she lifted the lid.  As morning gave way,  she laboured on, mixing flour, water and yeast, only pausing long enough to make a pot of tea.

I can still see my mother standing at the counter, kerchief covering her hair,  kneading the soft, sticky dough. Her rhythmic movements as she worked the dough both familiar and comforting. She would set the mixture in an old covered pot to rise while she went about her other chores. By late afternoon, the dough would be ready to be shaped into loaves and placed into the blackened, time-worn pans for baking.

There were no written recipes….all the instructions and knowledge she had learned from my grandmother were committed to memory. Years of helping her mother in the kitchen and now providing for a family of her own had honed her craft. She was always shy and modest about her skill, but she was a master baker.

It was a labour of love and we reaped the reward. By evening, fresh golden loaves emerged from the oven, the yeasty, warm scent filling the kitchen with the loving aroma of home. It was always a pleasure to taste that first slice of freshly baked bread. My brothers and I piled our plates high with thick, warm slices for our evening snack. Delicious!

It has been a long time since I have tasted my mother’s homemade bread. She has been gone for many years now. I thought I had more time to learn her craft and transcribe the treasured recipes passed down through the generations, but life rarely goes according to plan. Through trial and error, I can now lay claim to a decent pan of biscuits, but my mother’s homemade bread still eludes me. Perhaps one day I too will craft the perfect loaf of homemade bread and fill my house with the rich, warm scents of my childhood.