Of the Homemade Variety

Bread. I've gone and made it. My first and second attempts were eatable (by John's questionable standards) but unsatisfactory: one too crusty, the other undercooked. But my third! It was beautiful. So beautiful that I arranged some fruit behind it and took a picture. Corny? I don't think so.

I have two favourite memories of homemade bread: One is of my mum kneading the dough in a huge yellow bowl. She would kneel in the little entrance-way to the kitchen where her knees would be on the carpet of the living room and the huge bowl of dough would be on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. She would kneel there and knead, her hands strong and quick, folding the dough and pushing with the heels of her hands. She made something like ten loaves (one for each of her children, perhaps?) at a time. The most I've made is two. It's tiring, kneading that dough. I have a new respect for her, now that I've done it.

My other memory is, of course, of the product of her labours. She would often time the bread to be out of the oven just before her children got home from school. We would enter the house and the delicious aroma would immediately overtake us. We devoured thick slices of that bread, slathered in peanut butter or honey, in seconds.

I never stopped to wonder at the satisfaction my mum must have felt at her children's enthusiastic response to her baking skills but now I can only hope that she felt as gratified as I do. John is a very complimentary eater. Even my less successful attempts have been rewarded with nothing but encouragement.