Mother told this story of the day the aroma of freshly baked bread filled our kitchen. Its heady smell greets anyone who opens our door. Does anything smell better?
Once upon a time I (Mom) did not care much for homemade bread – or baker’s bread either for that matter. I even wondered why my mother-in-law baked round loaves. Why not the usual rectangles?
When I was 35 or so, Grandma Theresa Adler broke her right arm. That was drastic. Grandpa was a non-cooker; he didn’t like nor have the time to eat out. I filled the gap by keeping them supplied with freshly pared potatoes, carrots, etc. Grandma used her left hand and got along rather well.
Verna was five that fall and stayed with Grandma two or three evenings each week. Grandma taught her to scrape carrots and do small kitchen chores.
But Grandpa missed the homemade bread. That was his mainstay. Grandma couldn’t knead the dough. Verna was too small.
That fall Grandpa had already taken the wheat to Geneva flour mill. There he exchanged it for the winter’s supply of flour. One morning he brought me a 25-pound sack of the white stuff.
I baked pies, cakes, cookies, doughnuts – too many. But yeast bread! Never! Biscuits, pancakes, yes. Bread, no. I didn’t like it, I didn’t have time. You know the excuses one can find to not do what one does not wish to do.
Grandpa did not ask me to bake bread and I knew he enjoyed the pies. The flour was just a gift he knew I could use.
But Grandpa worked hard and didn’t ask for much.
One day I bought some yeast.
The children wanted plenty of crust. Round loaves were the answer.
And the aroma. Does anything smell better! Even my initial attempts were edible.
Grandpa soon brought me the second bag of flour.
DHA/10/29/86 (Verna was five so this happened fall of 1952.)