Baking My Bread

Nothing warms a home on a cold winter's day like baking bread. I prefer to make it entirely by hand. I love the smell of yeasty dough and the pleasure of rolling up my sleeves and burying my hands deep in it's sticky midst while kneading, satisfies the frustrated gardener in me. I love to get my hands "dirty". My maternal grandmother, Lena, baked the best bread I have ever tasted. Spending time with her was a great treat for me as a child. She indulged my every wish and made me feel that I was the most precious person in the world... and I adored her.
Having lived most of her life on a farm in (very rural) Missouri, while raising and feeding eight children, food preparation was a normal and necessary focus of her days. Baking everything from scratch was a habit she maintained for the rest of her life....and perfected as an art.
I gladly and eagerly gobbled my way through countless cookies, banana breads, pies, cakes and, best of all, loaves of fresh, soft , crusty, white bread. Did I mention that I washed all these goodies down with my very own cup of coffee? Much to my mother's dismay, Grandma would pour me coffee and I would sit at the table gulping (no ladylike sipping for me!) and feel like one of the grown ups. Turns out Grandma knew best, all my mother's dire predictions that coffee would stunt my growth, turned out to be false. I'm a good five foot six inches tall.
Those memories and experiences have shaped the life I strive to live daily. A life filled with preparing and sharing wonderful foods, home made and home baked with loving hands and a generous, giving heart.