Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Bread Mouse

My Mom. World's Best Bread Maker
I love bread.
Freshly baked or cooled. Whole wheat. White. Multi-grain. Potato. Sourdough. Soda. Banana. Rye. Leavened. Unleavened.
Have I mentioned that I love bread?
I could have lived on it.
Fortunately, my Mom made the best bread on the planet. And I knew this how . . .?
Okay, the best bread in my four-year-old world.
Twice a week, Mom would drag out her large, white ceramic bowl and start assembling the magical ingredients. She would add, then stir. Add, then stir. I especially loved it when she would make potato bread because it was so much fun watching her force the cooked, cooled potatoes through the colander.
Finally, the best part, when the mixture had turned into a ball of dough.
Then, Mom would punch and turn. Punch and turn.
And she would always give me a little piece to play with.
Dutifully, I would wash my hands, then reach, with eager fingers, for my piece.
I probably should mention that my little white ball of dough usually changed quite quickly to a little grey ball of dough. Obviously, four-year-old hand washing left much to be desired. And Mom must have noticed, because my tiny, little loaf never went into the oven . . .
In no time, six huge, beautifully golden-brown, perfectly shaped loaves emerged magically from the oven. And took their place of honour on the cupboard to cool.
And they smelled like Heaven. And I knew that how . . .?
Alright. Alright. They smelled like my four-year-old version of Heaven.
Sigh.
And they were just asking to be sliced and eaten with some freshly-churned butter.
Impatiently, I would follow my Mom around the kitchen, begging for a piece.
Now. While it was still warm.
And always, she would say, patiently, “In a minute, Diane. They have to cool a bit so they don't make you sick.”
Mom had told me many times about the little boy who had eaten a whole loaf of hot bread and who had to go to the hospital because the bread turned to a hard lump in his stomach.
And I believed her.
I did.
My stomach didn't, though, and it had to be re-convinced every time. “But Mom . . .”
Finally, she would sigh and relent, grabbing the big bread knife and carefully cutting through the crusty outside and into the wondrous middle.
Soon, I was sitting at the big kitchen table, happily munching my way through a large slice of fresh bread and butter.
This had to be done right.
I had tried on numerous occasions, to convince my Mom that crusts were simply to keep the yummy centre from drying out. But she had a thing about 'wasting food'. So, the crust was removed and quickly eaten, to get it out of the way. Then I could eagerly dive into the best part. The wonderfully soft centre.
It isn't possible to be happier.
I would lick my fingers carefully and then stab at any crumbs that might have fallen, collecting them on one fingertip. More licking.
When I had eaten everything possible, I would get to my feet and start following my Mom around the kitchen again. “Mo-om . . .”
The most I ever conned her out of were two pieces. Even if I didn't believe the 'little boy' story, Mom did.
But I outsmarted her. Sort of.
One afternoon, Mom had given my siblings and I our quota of fresh bread.
Then she, and they, all headed for the garden.
I was alone in the kitchen. With half a loaf of fresh bread.
My day had come.
I should probably point out, here, that I had tried, on numerous occasions, to slice fresh bread properly. Each attempt was a dismal failure.
I would start out all right, then the knife would turn one way or the other and I would end up, not with a slice, but a wedge. Which still tasted fine, just looked funny.
And made my Mom mad . . .
So, slicing was out.
I glanced around. The coast was still clear. How could I get that yummy bread from the cupboard into me?
I reached up and touched the soft, white centre. Pressed it, slightly. Watched it spring back so invitingly.
I pinched at it and managed to pull off a small piece.
Hmmm.
I stuck it into my mouth.
Mmmm.
I pinched off another piece. Bigger this time.
Better.
I dug at the loaf.
A really big piece.
Perfect.
And, quite suddenly, I realized that all I needed to get at the wonderful, soft, white interior, was two little hands.
And ten handy little fingers which I just happened to bring along with me.
In the next few minutes, I scooped out every crumb of soft, white goodness, leaving just the crusty, outside shell.
Okay. Now. How to hide the evidence.
I stared at the shell of a loaf. Huh. Maybe if I just turn it.
I flipped it over on its face.
Perfect! Mom will never know!
Have I mentioned that Mom always . . .
Okay, I'll move on . . .
The first thing Mom did when she came into the kitchen was tip the loaf back up.
Rats. Moms do those things. What's with that?
“What happened here?”
I stared at her mutely. How could I get out of this one . . .?
“It looks like we have a little mouse.”
Genius! Why didn't I think of that? I smiled and nodded. Yep. Mouse. Moms are so smart.
“Diane. Don't eat all the bread.”
I stared at her. What about the mouse?
She put her hand on my head. “It's not good for you to eat so much bread, Honey.”
Oh, yeah. The hospital thing.
“Promise me you won't do it again.”
I nodded, my eyes on the bread-shell on the cupboard.
“Good girl.”
I didn't get sick, like the little boy. But I also didn't ever dig at a loaf of bread again. I learned to eat the whole thing a slice at a time. By cutting it with a knife.
Like civilized people.
But there is a codicil . . .
Years later, after I married, I discovered that my husby came from a family of bread-lovers, just like me. Except that his family had fought, not for the soft, yummy centre, but for the crusty outside of his Mother's delicious bread.
Often, if one end crust had been taken, the other was cut off. If both ends were gone, the next logical choice was the top. Then the bottom.. Then the sides.
It wasn't unusual for my Mother-in-law to find a bread centre, lying naked on the cutting board.
Why couldn't I have been raised in that family?
Everyone would have been happy.

18 comments:

  1. Hee hee! You tell a story SO well, Diane! I'm a crust-lover but due to jaw issues I find it harder to eat them now. So my husband (also a crust-lover) no longer has competition for them :)

    Love the thought of both the hollowed out loaf and the "naked" loaf!

    ReplyDelete
  2. What an interesting child you must have been to parent!

    ReplyDelete
  3. I so enjoy your memories. Your family appears so clearly in my mind's eye. Thank you!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Lol on this one! I can't think of anything better than fresh baked bread. I love a slice covered in Butter and Raspberry Jam. Heaven! Well maybe not quite as yummy as chocolate~
    Hugs!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Hmmm . . . yes, raspberry would take a short second place to chocolate in my world as well!

      Delete
  5. Oh my, I can just smell the fresh bread! I'm just like you - give me the center any day!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Uh-oh. Another center lover. Probably good we weren't raised in the same household, Lana!

      Delete
  6. my friend used to pick up the bread from the bakery for her family on the way home from school and did the same thing of pinching out bits until the middle looked very sad (I agree that it's the best part)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Let's start a club, Leanne! Hmm . . . the The Middle Broads. Or maybe the Broad Middles. Yikes. I'll keep working on it . . .

      Delete
  7. My family is like your husby's. We LOVED the crusty bits, slathered with butter (none of your margarine fakery back then) and jam. We didn't bake our own bread though, a fresh loaf was bought every other day from the baker in his horse drawn cart.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. What a picture! A baker with a horse-drawn cart! I want to grow up where you grew up!

      Delete
  8. You know what they say "One man's garbage is another man's treasure"!

    ReplyDelete
  9. One of my favorite taste memories is finding freshly made bread and slathered with homemade strawberry jam ready to be eaten as an after school snack! I loved both the inside and the crust!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah-ha! You're one of those are you? Voting on both sides.

      Delete

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