"Baking Bread" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
A dear friend has recently discovered the joy of making and baking bread. He has shared stories and photos of his accomplishments—rolls of various kinds, whole wheat loaves, baguettes, sourdough, rustic breads. His enthusiasm and achievements bring back memories of my mother, who was an excellent bread maker and baker. She learned from her mother, using a wood stove fueled with firewood. To this day, I marvel at how they maintained the right temperatures.
They crafted these breads without recipes or measuring cups, relying instead on sight, touch, and taste. It was a labor of love, a necessity, and in its own way, a form of art. Each loaf, roll, and twist was a masterpiece of taste and perfection.
Baking was also therapy. In the quiet of the kitchen, sometimes in the stillness of the early morning hours, she would measure and mix, knead and shape, bake and savor the aromas filling the house. The act of baking brought her peace and clarity, a simplification of life down to its basics, making problems seem clearer and more manageable.
As a child, I could always tell when my mother had a restless night. When I emerged from my room in the morning and wandered into the kitchen, I would be greeted by the sight and smell of freshly baked bread. And on those mornings, she would do something special for me—take scraps of dough, fry them in lard or butter, and serve them hot with her homemade jams. Strawberry, raspberry, chokecherry jelly, peach preserves—whatever was available.
To this day, I savor the memories of those mornings, the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, and the love infused in every bite.
Mom, I miss you to this day. These memories of you are alive in my thoughts and heart. There is so much I have to tell you... need to tell you. Yet somehow, I suspect you may already know?
And is there not a good metaphysical lesson in baking bread? We are both the breadmaker and the bread itself. We add, we savor, we create. And we are also ourselves added to, kneaded, shaped by life... yet are we ever really finished? Life, like dough, is ever-evolving. It is stretched, folded, and left to rise in the warmth of experience. Sometimes, we are placed into the heat of trials, yet from that fire, we emerge changed—crisp on the outside, soft and nourishing within. Each moment, each challenge, each joy adds another layer to who we are, just as each ingredient shapes the final loaf. And like bread shared at the table, our lives are meant to be given, savored, and appreciated, nourishing those around us with the love and wisdom we cultivate along the way.
~Wylddane
(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
They crafted these breads without recipes or measuring cups, relying instead on sight, touch, and taste. It was a labor of love, a necessity, and in its own way, a form of art. Each loaf, roll, and twist was a masterpiece of taste and perfection.
Baking was also therapy. In the quiet of the kitchen, sometimes in the stillness of the early morning hours, she would measure and mix, knead and shape, bake and savor the aromas filling the house. The act of baking brought her peace and clarity, a simplification of life down to its basics, making problems seem clearer and more manageable.
As a child, I could always tell when my mother had a restless night. When I emerged from my room in the morning and wandered into the kitchen, I would be greeted by the sight and smell of freshly baked bread. And on those mornings, she would do something special for me—take scraps of dough, fry them in lard or butter, and serve them hot with her homemade jams. Strawberry, raspberry, chokecherry jelly, peach preserves—whatever was available.
To this day, I savor the memories of those mornings, the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, and the love infused in every bite.
Mom, I miss you to this day. These memories of you are alive in my thoughts and heart. There is so much I have to tell you... need to tell you. Yet somehow, I suspect you may already know?
And is there not a good metaphysical lesson in baking bread? We are both the breadmaker and the bread itself. We add, we savor, we create. And we are also ourselves added to, kneaded, shaped by life... yet are we ever really finished? Life, like dough, is ever-evolving. It is stretched, folded, and left to rise in the warmth of experience. Sometimes, we are placed into the heat of trials, yet from that fire, we emerge changed—crisp on the outside, soft and nourishing within. Each moment, each challenge, each joy adds another layer to who we are, just as each ingredient shapes the final loaf. And like bread shared at the table, our lives are meant to be given, savored, and appreciated, nourishing those around us with the love and wisdom we cultivate along the way.
~Wylddane
(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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