Baking Therapy

I make my bread from scratch. I start by grinding up a whole #10 can of wheat berries. I mix the ingredients while the flour is still warm.

5 c hot water
2/3 c oil
2/3 c honey or sugar
2 T salt
2 T instant yeast
12-14 c whole wheat flour

I mix half the flour with all of the other ingredients to combine thoroughly, then I gradually add the rest of the flour in. Caleb often helps me measure the ingredients, and he stirs until it becomes too difficult. When it all comes together in an un-stirrable mass, I turn it out and let him have a shot at kneading, but he quickly gives way to me. I am a kneading hero in his eyes.

I set my kitchen timer for 10 minutes. This is when my therapy begins. The first two minutes are always the hardest until I find a rhythm, and my mind wanders. I think of my friend who taught me how to knead dough, and of that warm spring afternoon in her apartment kitchen. I was very pregnant with Isaac. Rebekah kept encouraging me to work the dough a little harder, and I remember wondering if this might just send me into labor. I remember the woman who taught her to knead dough. Gayle Hatch was our Relief Society president for years in Chapel Hill. She had strong arms, brown from gardening and, apparently, kneading a wicked mean batch of dough. I miss these women and so many more. I miss the place where I first learned to be a mother, and a friend. My shoulders begin to ache just a bit.

I think of my family, who will eat this bread for snacks, lunches, even dinner and breakfast sometimes. This work I am doing will fill us up for the next week.  

And then the timer rings. I make three loaves and place them in greased pans. I spray the loaves with cooking spray and cover them with a wet dish towel. When they have risen to about an inch above the tops of the pans they are ready to bake. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes. I smell them for the last 20 minutes and it is intoxicating. If you aren't in the habit of baking your own bread, the smell alone is worth the effort. Remove the loaves immediately from their pans. I'm supposed to wait to cut into them, but I never do. Caleb and Eli like theirs with jam, I prefer mine with honey. In this moment, with the warm smell of fresh bread lingering in my home, and my childrens' mouths and bellies full, I am a success. I am the mother I need to be.