I
like to say that I learned to bake bread on a woodstove in a log cabin
in Oregon. But that’s a lie. It was Jane who baked the wood
stove bread and Jane who made something called “Apple Carrot Cashew Soup.”
I’m still not sure what all was in it but Jane’s soup was the single best thing
I ever ate. I suppose that after a month of soybeans and rice – anything
would have tasted delicious. And it was a delicious.
Jane was a friend of the friend that I came to visit when I met the man who became my Carpenter Husband. I always thought that she was the one that he really loved and because Jane married John, he was stuck with me. I could never allow myself to believe that he loved me, at least not until he no longer did. It was only then that I realized that not believing the truth can make it a lie as easily as believing a lie can make it come true.
Carpenter Husband was a west coast native, a Renaissance man in flannel shirts and bellbottoms. Jane’s husband John was a rich kid from New York City, raised by his grandparents in penthouse apartment. The only thing John knew about vegetables was that when you ordered them the valet would bring them on a silver tray. Being a typical guilt ridden liberal, when he came of age he began looking for alternative lifestyles. All the alternative lifestyles his money could buy and it bought a lot. It bought 180 acres in Oregon, a year’s supply of soybeans and rice and the loyalty of this group who wanted to live off the grid and go back to the land. I was the new kid, fresh off the streets of Detroit and I wasn’t that loyal. If there had been better plumbing I might have been. But the outhouse was up the hill and I questioned the practicality of that. I questioned a lot and didn’t seem reverent enough. But mostly, I complained about the food.
One day John took me on a walk. He often took people on walks when he felt the need to correct their Karma. I grew up in Detroit and I had already been hustled by Inner City quick-change artists and no one does a scam better than the quick change guys. Not even Charlie Manson’s family could lure me into taking a drive in the desert. I was a hard sell. But I agreed to go on a walk with John. We talked about the trees and he named them along with the wildflowers. I was impressed. Then he told me a bit about his privileged childhood and his spiritual quest to find enlightenment.
He told me that the food shortage was not because he was stingy. It was his way of helping us all learn about hunger. It was a way to keep us in touch with those less fortunate. It was at this point that I decided that since I was one of those less fortunate and had a lifetime of experience, I could teach him about hunger. I told him that as long as he could pull out his wallet and stop at Burger King, he would never really know hunger. Hunger is more then not eating or even knowing where your next meal is coming from. It’s when you don’t know if there’s EVER going to be a next meal. It’s not a hobby that you can quit because you’re tired or bored. Real hunger colors the way you see everything. It doesn’t just eat at your stomach it eats at your soul. I told him that until he gave away all of his money he would never really know hunger; until then, he’d just be on a diet. The next day, I was asked to leave. He found my Karma lacking. The handsome carpenter left with me and married me soon after. I learned many things in Oregon, but baking bread wasn’t one of them.
It was Jeanne, my sister in-law, who taught me how to bake bread. I remember vividly the first time I saw Jeanne’s house. She lived in the East Bay north of Berkeley. We pulled into the circular driveway of what appeared to be a simple ranch style house. When you walked in you immediately noticed that the back side of the house was wall to wall windows and sliding glass doors. The house looked out on a magnificent patio and there was no separation between outside and inside. It was all so very “California”. There were plants and flowers, music and sunshine everywhere. It looked like a page from Sunset Magazine. Jeanne was beautiful too. She had the same black hair and green eyes as her brother and she was wearing a shirt she had designed and embroidered. When we arrived, she was busy baking bread and hand painting the tiles in the kitchen. I was dumbfounded; it was as if I had wandered into a foreign country. I wanted to shed my skin, to transform from an ignorant hillbilly from a broken home in a factory town, and become Jeanne.
Jeanne was wonderful to me. She opened her heart and treated me like a sister and a friend. She always made me feel comfortable. She taught me so many things. She was always my husbands’ sister first but she never made me feel like anything but family. One day she taught me to make her never fail whole wheat bread.
Baking bread is more than preparing food, it’s an event. The bread takes over the entire house for a day. The temperature must remain constant. The house must remain quiet. You hear the bread bakers refrain, “Don’t slam the door – I’m making bread. Don’t jump – I’m making bread.” The bread sits for hours, like a fragile infant on the kitchen counter covered with a cheesecloth blanket. Once it goes in the oven, the smell envelops the house and everyone gathers to wait. When it’s finally removed from the oven, everyone is waiting with knives and butter. Nothing tastes quite as good as freshly baked bread. It is a meal, an celebration, a ceremony. Baking bread is an intimate, loving activity.
Jeanne’s bread is the only bread I can make and I’ve tried others. It makes four loaves. I can’t cut the recipe in half, can’t change it at all. But if I follow Jeanne’s instructions, I can make wonderful whole wheat bread.
Jane was a friend of the friend that I came to visit when I met the man who became my Carpenter Husband. I always thought that she was the one that he really loved and because Jane married John, he was stuck with me. I could never allow myself to believe that he loved me, at least not until he no longer did. It was only then that I realized that not believing the truth can make it a lie as easily as believing a lie can make it come true.
Carpenter Husband was a west coast native, a Renaissance man in flannel shirts and bellbottoms. Jane’s husband John was a rich kid from New York City, raised by his grandparents in penthouse apartment. The only thing John knew about vegetables was that when you ordered them the valet would bring them on a silver tray. Being a typical guilt ridden liberal, when he came of age he began looking for alternative lifestyles. All the alternative lifestyles his money could buy and it bought a lot. It bought 180 acres in Oregon, a year’s supply of soybeans and rice and the loyalty of this group who wanted to live off the grid and go back to the land. I was the new kid, fresh off the streets of Detroit and I wasn’t that loyal. If there had been better plumbing I might have been. But the outhouse was up the hill and I questioned the practicality of that. I questioned a lot and didn’t seem reverent enough. But mostly, I complained about the food.
One day John took me on a walk. He often took people on walks when he felt the need to correct their Karma. I grew up in Detroit and I had already been hustled by Inner City quick-change artists and no one does a scam better than the quick change guys. Not even Charlie Manson’s family could lure me into taking a drive in the desert. I was a hard sell. But I agreed to go on a walk with John. We talked about the trees and he named them along with the wildflowers. I was impressed. Then he told me a bit about his privileged childhood and his spiritual quest to find enlightenment.
He told me that the food shortage was not because he was stingy. It was his way of helping us all learn about hunger. It was a way to keep us in touch with those less fortunate. It was at this point that I decided that since I was one of those less fortunate and had a lifetime of experience, I could teach him about hunger. I told him that as long as he could pull out his wallet and stop at Burger King, he would never really know hunger. Hunger is more then not eating or even knowing where your next meal is coming from. It’s when you don’t know if there’s EVER going to be a next meal. It’s not a hobby that you can quit because you’re tired or bored. Real hunger colors the way you see everything. It doesn’t just eat at your stomach it eats at your soul. I told him that until he gave away all of his money he would never really know hunger; until then, he’d just be on a diet. The next day, I was asked to leave. He found my Karma lacking. The handsome carpenter left with me and married me soon after. I learned many things in Oregon, but baking bread wasn’t one of them.
It was Jeanne, my sister in-law, who taught me how to bake bread. I remember vividly the first time I saw Jeanne’s house. She lived in the East Bay north of Berkeley. We pulled into the circular driveway of what appeared to be a simple ranch style house. When you walked in you immediately noticed that the back side of the house was wall to wall windows and sliding glass doors. The house looked out on a magnificent patio and there was no separation between outside and inside. It was all so very “California”. There were plants and flowers, music and sunshine everywhere. It looked like a page from Sunset Magazine. Jeanne was beautiful too. She had the same black hair and green eyes as her brother and she was wearing a shirt she had designed and embroidered. When we arrived, she was busy baking bread and hand painting the tiles in the kitchen. I was dumbfounded; it was as if I had wandered into a foreign country. I wanted to shed my skin, to transform from an ignorant hillbilly from a broken home in a factory town, and become Jeanne.
Jeanne was wonderful to me. She opened her heart and treated me like a sister and a friend. She always made me feel comfortable. She taught me so many things. She was always my husbands’ sister first but she never made me feel like anything but family. One day she taught me to make her never fail whole wheat bread.
Baking bread is more than preparing food, it’s an event. The bread takes over the entire house for a day. The temperature must remain constant. The house must remain quiet. You hear the bread bakers refrain, “Don’t slam the door – I’m making bread. Don’t jump – I’m making bread.” The bread sits for hours, like a fragile infant on the kitchen counter covered with a cheesecloth blanket. Once it goes in the oven, the smell envelops the house and everyone gathers to wait. When it’s finally removed from the oven, everyone is waiting with knives and butter. Nothing tastes quite as good as freshly baked bread. It is a meal, an celebration, a ceremony. Baking bread is an intimate, loving activity.
Jeanne’s bread is the only bread I can make and I’ve tried others. It makes four loaves. I can’t cut the recipe in half, can’t change it at all. But if I follow Jeanne’s instructions, I can make wonderful whole wheat bread.
There are a couple of things you need to remember when
baking bread. You have to knead the
dough but you can’t knead it too much.
There’s a limit and beyond that you will only make the dough tough. If you knead too much it will lose its
tenderness and responsiveness and harden to your touch. I think I needed love from the Carpenter
Husband a bit too much. I think he
hardened to my touch.
Jeanne had much to give and gave of her knowledge and time freely. John had much to give and used it to “teach” lessons he hadn’t learned.
Jeanne had much to give and gave of her knowledge and time freely. John had much to give and used it to “teach” lessons he hadn’t learned.
No comments:
Post a Comment