I will never forget the scent of baking bread that flowed through the air and in through my nostrils, filling me with a sense of warmth and happiness. This wonderful aroma became a sort of trademark when it came to my grandfather.
With every visit to my grandparent’s house, I was exploding with excitement. The two-hour car ride there seemed like an eternity; the whole while absorbed in my own thoughts of the bread that I was about to consume. I would burst out of the car and into my grandfather’s arms.
“Will you make bread Papa?”
“Will I? I’ve already begun, would you like to watch me finish?”
And of course, I would watch. I sat with amazement as he carefully kneaded the dough. His hands would melt into the odd ball of clay as if he was becoming one with it. And there were always those few moments where his hands would disappear completely, only to emerge suddenly and dive once more into the midst. Ever so often he would shower the dough with the flour that was always close at hand. This was a very delicate process according to my grandfather.
“The importance of kneading is greatly under-estimated. It is a necessary step in bread baking for both taste and texture.”
He would use big words with me which at the time I did not quite grasp, but I would quietly nod my head in an effort to pretend.
There was a test, he’d say, in deciding whether to stop kneading or not. He would hold on to each side of the dough and begin to stretch it in opposite directions. If the dough stretched easily and did not break, it was ready to be left alone. If it broke, it was time to begin the kneading process again. The many shapes the dough could take on continuously baffled me. Papa would stretch it in every which way, and made it a point to make me laugh while doing so. Sometimes he would poke holes through the dough so as to show his face through the other side. Other times he would carve pictures into the moldable surface and tell stories with them. It was always an adventure.
Soon, the transformation would begin. The dough was left in a bowl to rise before we could begin to bake it. It was fascinating to watch, and would sometimes take up hours of my attention. Any attempt to lure me away would fail. I was determined to watch this mysterious metamorphosis from finish to end.
Beginning as a small lump the spherical figure would slowly begin to grow, encompassing anything in its surroundings. Bulging from the sides it would expand like a balloon, erupting and constantly changing until finally it would stop.
“Papa, is it ready?”
“He’d check it, and then begin once again to transform the bread. This was where he would get creative. It was as if my grandfather had turned into a sculptor and the bread was his masterpiece. He would twist and carve and sculpt the dough until it was exactly how he wanted it. Then, he would place it in the oven and I would watch anxiously.
The aura began to change. The smell of the bread would fill the room, and the saliva in my mouth would develop. I could almost taste the warmth of the bread with every breath. When my grandfather would open the oven the smell would plunge through the air filling ever corner of the room. I would place my face next to the bread and feel the warmth that was being released, and my grandfather would scoop me up in his arms and ask me the same question every time.
“You know why this is the best bread in the world?”
And I would always answer the same way.
“Why Papa?”
“Because I made it with a special ingredient. My love for you.”
That was when I realized that this was more than just bread. This was a legacy.