I remember when my mother would make bread when I was growing up. She would make these "buns" (and would call them so, in all its Anglo pronunciation) that were perfect for sliders. She mostly made them of whole wheat and with lots of oat bran, but sometimes they would be sweet, glazed with butter and sprinkled with sugar, como un pan dulce.
I remember when she would make a table with the buns, ham, cheese, mayo and other fixings, inviting us to make our own snack. She was one of those mothers who, despite having a really protective streak and watchful eye, never really over-mothered us. We (my siblings and I) would not have anyone to blame but ourselves if our laundry was not done, or if we didn't have a snack at school, since she did teach us how to use the washer and would provide everything we needed to make lunch. But I digress. Back to the buns, I would make myself two or three small sandwiches, filled with jamón, tomato and mustard. When I'd unpack my lunchbox at school I noticed two things:
1- the other kids who ate sandwiches had square white bread.
1.1- the other kids eating white bread would blatantly make fun of my weird looking bun and call my family 'poor' for my mother having to bake us bread.
2- the rest of the kids' lunches were made of masa: arepas o empanadas, staples of venezuelan street-food breakfasts.
I gotta admit I felt self-conscious and conflicted because I wished I was eating either the white bread or the empanada, for either way, I would have escaped the scrutiny of my peers. But I wouldn't have wanted my mother to stop baking because I liked it when she did: my sister and I would help her roll of small pieces of dough onto a tray to let them rise and she'd let us eat the bread right out of the oven. I know now that baking was one of my mother's most intimate ways to show us her love. (Kudos to my mom for not stopping baking despite us telling her that her buns made us social outcasts.) I don't really remember when I finally got over the shame of bringing homemade bread to school, but I'm sure there is more here to unpack that merits a session with a therapist, not on a blog entry. But the two things that are clear for me here are that, one, bread has huge emotional associations for me, and two, kids are cruel.
Despite having been raised by a pretty dexterous cook and baker (my momma,) I've always felt iffy about baking because it's more of an exact science, with less room to maneuver in case of a screw-up. But in the last few months I've been playing with quick-rise breads, no yeast necessary, loads of butter, aromatic and a final consistency that dances between being bread and cake. I've played with zucchini (since i had lots leftover after making the zucchini white bean stew), banana, carrot. I've been overall pretty pleased with the results, although I have taken note of colleagues' comments on the effects of over-kneading and over-baking.
My challenge this week was a sweet, yet savory, nutty bread that we could serve with the cheese course for this week's Communion. I got this recipe off the Bon Appétit Cookbook: Walnut-Raisin bread. Despite using yeast (which made me a little nervous) it was super easy to make, and delicious: it calls for wheat and rye flour, oat bran, cocoa, toasted walnuts, raisins, butter, milk and honey. After a couple of hours for the dough to rise, it took 45 minutes in a 400 degree oven, and voilá! Soon the whole house was permeated with that baking scent, bringing me back the memories of my childhood.
After I cut two slices of the slightly black/brown bread, I took notice of that homemade feel that commercial breads will never attain. It reminded me again of those buns my mom used to make, with their dense consistency and grainy texture. I made myself a ham, tomato and mustard sandwich, like the ones I fixed myself when I was a child, and felt myself getting filled by nostalgia and regret. Nostalgia, for I missed being on the receiving end of such a loving gesture; regret, for ever having felt shame for eating a sandwich that was so good.
I remember when she would make a table with the buns, ham, cheese, mayo and other fixings, inviting us to make our own snack. She was one of those mothers who, despite having a really protective streak and watchful eye, never really over-mothered us. We (my siblings and I) would not have anyone to blame but ourselves if our laundry was not done, or if we didn't have a snack at school, since she did teach us how to use the washer and would provide everything we needed to make lunch. But I digress. Back to the buns, I would make myself two or three small sandwiches, filled with jamón, tomato and mustard. When I'd unpack my lunchbox at school I noticed two things:
1- the other kids who ate sandwiches had square white bread.
1.1- the other kids eating white bread would blatantly make fun of my weird looking bun and call my family 'poor' for my mother having to bake us bread.
2- the rest of the kids' lunches were made of masa: arepas o empanadas, staples of venezuelan street-food breakfasts.
I gotta admit I felt self-conscious and conflicted because I wished I was eating either the white bread or the empanada, for either way, I would have escaped the scrutiny of my peers. But I wouldn't have wanted my mother to stop baking because I liked it when she did: my sister and I would help her roll of small pieces of dough onto a tray to let them rise and she'd let us eat the bread right out of the oven. I know now that baking was one of my mother's most intimate ways to show us her love. (Kudos to my mom for not stopping baking despite us telling her that her buns made us social outcasts.) I don't really remember when I finally got over the shame of bringing homemade bread to school, but I'm sure there is more here to unpack that merits a session with a therapist, not on a blog entry. But the two things that are clear for me here are that, one, bread has huge emotional associations for me, and two, kids are cruel.
Despite having been raised by a pretty dexterous cook and baker (my momma,) I've always felt iffy about baking because it's more of an exact science, with less room to maneuver in case of a screw-up. But in the last few months I've been playing with quick-rise breads, no yeast necessary, loads of butter, aromatic and a final consistency that dances between being bread and cake. I've played with zucchini (since i had lots leftover after making the zucchini white bean stew), banana, carrot. I've been overall pretty pleased with the results, although I have taken note of colleagues' comments on the effects of over-kneading and over-baking.
My challenge this week was a sweet, yet savory, nutty bread that we could serve with the cheese course for this week's Communion. I got this recipe off the Bon Appétit Cookbook: Walnut-Raisin bread. Despite using yeast (which made me a little nervous) it was super easy to make, and delicious: it calls for wheat and rye flour, oat bran, cocoa, toasted walnuts, raisins, butter, milk and honey. After a couple of hours for the dough to rise, it took 45 minutes in a 400 degree oven, and voilá! Soon the whole house was permeated with that baking scent, bringing me back the memories of my childhood.
After I cut two slices of the slightly black/brown bread, I took notice of that homemade feel that commercial breads will never attain. It reminded me again of those buns my mom used to make, with their dense consistency and grainy texture. I made myself a ham, tomato and mustard sandwich, like the ones I fixed myself when I was a child, and felt myself getting filled by nostalgia and regret. Nostalgia, for I missed being on the receiving end of such a loving gesture; regret, for ever having felt shame for eating a sandwich that was so good.
1 comment:
.....great entry. This is what food is about!
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