Experts say our sense of smell is one of the most powerful senses we have and can evoke memories or emotions. Perhaps that explains why I feel an "aha!" moment of nostalgia whenever the aroma of bread baking fills the air.
Homemade bread wasn’t only a food staple growing up but also the cheapest, practical way to feed our large family of fourteen, and my mother baked it practically every other day. She never used a recipe. She knew from memory the exact ingredients to use. Her skill, timing, and practice (in my book) made her one of the best bread makers of all time.
As a little girl, I'd often watched my mother take a large pan of flour and transform it into a big doughboy. Her hands, I can still see her hands. They never seemed to tire as she kneaded and folded and punched the dough, repeatedly sprinkling it with flour until it became less sticky and made a cracking, whistling sound.
A couple hours later, the dough would be spilling out over the edges of the bread pan, requiring to be kneaded down for a second rising before being placed in pans. I recall how during each kneading process, my mother would give the doughboy a big slap. "That's for good luck! " she'd say with a smirk.
One of my all-time favorite memories was coming home from school to the aroma of freshly-baked bread. As the smell lured me into the kitchen, I'd cut off a thick slice, slather it with molasses, slump onto the couch and savor every bite before sneaking back to get another piece.
Toutons, known as fried dough, were also a big part of my childhood. On bread-making days, my siblings and I would often arrive home from school for lunch to fried toutons. They'd be piled high in the oven, and as Mom placed some on our plates, we'd drizzle them with molasses. They were so finger-licking good!
My mother's homemade bread was also used to make hot bread and milk poultice, a natural remedy for drawing out infections. I witnessed this when my older sister stepped on a rusty nail, causing an infection. My mother made a poultice, wrapped it in a cloth, and once cooled enough, she placed it on my sister's foot (twice a day) until the infection was gone.
As I got older, somewhere around ten, I became eager to learn the art of break-making. "Want to try!" my mother asked one day as she lowered the big pan of flour down onto a chair within my reach. Her eyes gleamed as she placed one of her aprons on me. I’ve never forgotten how patiently she demonstrated the rhythm required to work and knead the dough. Nor have I forgotten the art of bread making.
In fact, I look back with fond memories of upholding the bread-making tradition with my own daughter and how she used to hover over the bread pan when she was just a little girl. Wide-eyed, she’d watch me turn a pan of flour into a big doughboy, and we'd both laugh as I slapped the dough. Your Nanny Lambert said it's for good luck, I'd tell her.
Today the traditional bread-making pleasure is all but forgotten and replaced with a bread maker or fast-rising yeast. It saves time kneading the dough, after all. Life has gotten a lot faster since my growing-up days, so I can certainly understand why people don't have the time to set aside five hours to make bread "the old fashion way."
While I don't make homemade bread much anymore, when I do, I still like to make it from scratch because it's a memory that lives on in me from my mother, a memory I carry close to my heart, a moment in time that I will always treasure.
How about you? Do you have fond memories of your mother's homemade bread? Or perhaps there are other family traditions that you hold near and dear to your heart?
