Learning to Bake Bread
...by Emily Mills
Bits of leafy green things clinging to my toes, I rushed through the jungle of the backyard and up the slimy, worm-covered cement blocks that led into the house. The electric light reflecting off the drops of rain that had collected on my skin glowed, and as I twirled lightly in the center of the fragrant kitchen, she laughed and shook her head. I saw the little crows’ feet strutting across her flesh, speaking of the ghosts of laughter past. I watched her strong, small hands kneading dough for the cinnamon raisin bread that I loved so much.
I came to a halt by the table and just watched for a timeless moment as she continued to work the infant bread. Dad was out somewhere, most likely getting milk from the store. We’d run out earlier that day.
She uncapped the cinnamon bottle and sprinkled the stuff into the dough, rolling and kneading thin strips and then meshing them together like a clay pinch pot, only much tastier. Then into the oven the mixture went. My mother, not normally cook. Usually dad would cook, but she knew her way around the ingredients. She would look down at me looking up at her and grin, waving flour covered fingers at my dirt smeared cheeks, saying “Helen, honey, this takes a long time to make so I can only make it for you all once in a while-for special occasions.”
Deep and throaty, I listened to the thunder as it chased the lightning around in the sky. The smell of rain and worms mingled with baking bread and grubby teenager. Moms’ smell, unique, felt no need to take up more than the allotted personal space. It hinted at a more subtle and long-lasting sort of beauty. Like when I hugged her goodbye.
“Honey, you should know how to make this bread.” Indeed, someone ought to learn. I wanted to learn. I’d have a good teacher.
“I’m no good at cooking, mom.” Not true. I’m just too lazy to cook.
“Hush up and c’mere.” A knowing look in the brown eyes that matched mine. “It’s very easy. The dough is mostly eggs and flour and the like. You’ve only to learn how to knead and form it properly, and how to mix the cinnamon with melted butter and then paint it onto the dough like this…” she said and produced a small brush. A new wad of malleable dough appeared and there were my big clumsy hands, trying to do what she had done, and with her aid, slowly accomplishing that. “When you make the dough, you have to make sure it’s not too thick and not so runny. And when you knead it, you have to try your best to get all of the little lumps out. You’ll always miss a few, and that’s all right, but the point is to try and get as many out as you can manage.”
I nodded and went at the task with a fierce sort of determination, kneading the bread to my will while she looked on. “Like this?”
“Yes, just like that. But you don’t need to kill it.” We both giggled at my overzealous actions. “Now prepare the cinnamon and butter mix. You have to melt the butter…” and she dropped a slice of the yellow stuff into a small pot that was heating up on the stove, next to the soup. “…and then mix the two. Not so much cinnamon, but enough to compliment the butter juuuust right.”
I slathered the mixture onto the bread and worked the whole mess into something resembling a loaf of what would be bread upon baking. She slid it into the oven alongside its’ twin and then turned to me.
“Now maybe you can start cooking dinner once inna while, hm?” I just shrugged innocently and made a grunting sound of defiance. She chuckled and kissed my forehead. “That’s my big bad teenager.”
“I still don’t know how to make the dough,” I added, arms folded across my chest. She grinned conspiratorially and used her forefinger to poke the tip of my nose.
“Ah, family secret, that is. For now you’ve got me to make the dough for you, and some day, when you move out to be on your own maybe, I’ll teach you. Besides,” she added, “if you knew that, then I’d make you cook it all the time, and something tells me you wouldn’t like that so much.”
I just scowled and stuck my tongue out at her, trying not to let on about how true that statement was. For the time being, I was quite content to watch her baking, selfishly enjoying the smells that dominated the room while sketching away in my tattered blue notebook. I was trying to draw her face but having a hard time getting it right-some of the features seemed blurred almost, like a photograph of her taken from some distance.
“My nose does not look like that,” she said from over my shoulder, startling me so that I dropped the pencil.
“Sorry! I have a hard time with noses,” I shot back as I stooped over to retrieve my writing utensil. I heard her chuckle and move over to the stove to check on the soup. Then she spoke again, her back still to me.
“Were you just out playing with Alex?”
“Mom, we don’t play,” I corrected her. “But yes, we were hanging out, making repairs on the new fort. We were also trying to figure out why the heck you suddenly decided he couldn’t spend the night anymore.”
“You know why, honey.” I sighed, loudly. “Don’t give me that. You’re 13 now and that means you’re both at an age where it wouldn’t be proper for you to spend the night at each others’ houses.”
“Why not? He’s my best friend, for cryin’ out loud, and I am sooo not attracted to him!”
“That may be,” she continued patiently, “but both his mom and I have decided that it’s the best decision. And that’s that.”
I was a stubborn kid, but my mother was the most stubborn person of them all, and so I knew it was no use arguing with her over the issue. I dropped the subject and went back to my drawing.
~~~~~~~~
“What’re you doing?”
I looked up, startled at his sudden presence. I thought I was alone, but Alex has this talent for sneaking up on people like that.
“I’m writing, what does it look like?” I shot back. Alex grinned and sat down next to me on the little platform.
“You had this really intense look on your face, so I thought maybe you were doing your taxes or something just as nasty.”
“No, not my taxes,” I said, smiling a bit. “Just some, um, semi-autobiographical fiction? I think. I don’t really know what to call it.”
“Well good,” he said. “At least you’re writing again. It’s been a long time.”
I nodded and looked back down at what I had written. He looked on, trying to read it as well.
“What’s it about?” he asked. I took a moment before answering, and didn’t look up when I did.
“Mom, and me, and stuff I wish had happened. It’s stupid really-“
“No, hey,” he cut me off. “Hel, don’t say that. Shit, is today…?”
“Yeah. 15 years ago today.”
“I almost forgot. Then why on Earth are you sitting around in this dirty old tree fort? What happened to the Resolution?” he asked, with a really comforting arm thrown across my shoulders.
“The Resolution,” I chuckled. “Yeah I know, ‘go out and do something fun, in memory of her’. It’s still early afternoon, Lex, I got time. I was actually thinking about going on a walk up to the hill to pick some apples, then maybe later go out drinking. You interested?”
“You know me, I’m always up for it.”
We sat there in silence for a moment, listening to the wind stirring up the fire-colored leaves overhead. The platform of our fort creaked and groaned as the branches that supported it swayed gently. Finally, Alex looked up from reading the notebook that I held in my lap.
“It’s nice, Hel.”
“Yeah,” I answered quietly. “I just wish it were real.”
~~~~~~~~~~
My butt was getting hot, so I moved away from the fireplace and leaned up against the coffee table, again focusing my attention on the television and the evening news. Mom and dad were lounging on the couch; mom nearly asleep from the head rub dad was giving her. That was their little routine. Being an absolute sucker for such things must run in the family, as mom used to scratch my back during church so I would fall asleep. It worked well for everyone. I got to sleep right through the boring sermons and my parents didn’t have to worry about me fidgeting and doodling all over the little pamphlets that were kept in the backs of the pews.
It was mid-winter, the snow outside reflecting the silver light of the moon so that even in night things were relatively bright. My oldest sister was on her way from her apartment in the city to visit us for Christmas and she was due sometime in the next hour.
There was a news story on about some woman who was trying to trace her ancestry but was having a hard time because she had been sent to Australia at an early age, after both parents were killed in the second world war. In the beginning, she’d had no papers telling her what her parents names even were, but by going through the agency that had brought her over from Germany, she had been able to start putting the pieces together.
It occurred to me that I too knew very little about my ancestors, or even about my own parents for that matter. I turned and looked at mom and dad.
“You guys were my age once, right?” I asked, grinning. Dad just stuck his tongue out at me, but after mom was through chuckling, she seemed to consider the question seriously.
“I have an old diary, from when I was about your age. Perhaps sometime you’d like to read it,” she offered. “I think I’m beyond being embarrassed by anything in there now.”
I nodded slightly and considered the offer. It would be interesting to read the innermost thoughts of my own mom from when she was much younger. It would be weird as hell, but interesting nonetheless.
The next day I asked mom to borrow the diary. She dug around in some of the old, dusty boxes we kept in the basement and eventually came up with a small leather-bound book that had “1962” stitched into the cover. I smiled shyly and thanked her, then beat a hasty retreat from the house.
Alex, my best friend, and I had decided to meet at Denny’s that afternoon, to pick at greasy french fries and converse. There were very few places kids our age could go in town and so, Denny’s being the only 24-hour establishment that didn’t require you be “18+”, we usually ended up there.
He was already seated at a booth near the back of the restaurant when I arrived.
“Whatcha got there?” he asked, spying the small book I carried.
“Mom’s diary from like, the 60’s.”
“Oh, weird. I don’t think I could handle reading about my mom’s prepubescent fantasies.”
“Alex, man,” I said, face contorted with disgust. “Please don’t use the words ‘mom’ and ‘fantasies’ in the same sentence. You’ll ruin my appetite."
He laughed and lobbed a piece of the food at my head, narrowly missing his target as I ducked and then kicked him under the table.
“So you gonna read it or what?” he insisted, kicking me right back.
“Out loud?”
“Well you can’t expect me to just sit here, staring at the ceiling while you immerse yourself in that book.”
“Oh all right,” I relented, and after sending my order off with the waiter, I relaxed into the booth and opened the diary to the first entry.
“September 29, 1962. Today was warm--I think we’re having an Indian Summer, as they say. The leaves are starting to turn lovely shades of red and yellow, and mother is already decking the house with Halloween decorations. Amy and I are making our own costumes this year, but we’re not sure what we’re going as yet. At school today, there was a new boy that moved here from Detroit. I’ve never been to Detroit, but he says his dad helped build some of the big skyscrapers there. His name is Jack, and he’s awfully cute…”
“Heeey, that’s your dad!” Alex proclaimed suggestively. I giggled and turned the page, seeing that the entry went on a bit more about nothing much.
“It’s strange to read this and sort of be cheering mom on. Like, ‘go after that boy! Marry him!’ Because you realize that it’s like reading your fate. I mean, if she hadn’t gone with dad I wouldn’t be here!”
“Anything else of interest in there?” he asked. I flipped through a few entries before coming to one that struck my interest.
“October 25, 1962. Jack asked me to the Harvest Dance today! I was beginning to think that the silly boy would never ask me out, but he’s come through in the end. Father’s not so sure about me going out with a boy, he says I’m too young, but it’s just a school dance. Mother took my side and everything’s settled now. I have to remind myself that someday, when I have children of my own, especially a girl, I will let her do what she thinks is proper.”
“Mom should be reading this, not me,” I said. Alex just laughed and shoveled another fry into his mouth. “’I will let her do what she thinks is proper’ my ass! You remember how your mom and my mom conspired to ban us from sleeping over at each other’s house when we were 13?”
“Yeah, that was so weird. What the hell were we gonna do at 13? Man, what the hell would we do even now?”
“For real. I guess you just forget stuff as you get older. I bet actually having kids changes your opinion about lots of things too.”
He nodded. “I think it probably changes everything.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Y’know, I remember that conversation. Or something similar to it, anyway,” he said as I finally put my pen down. Alex had just sat quietly and read along as I wrote the new passage.
“Yeah, I’m using some stuff that really happened, mixing it in with the fiction. I still have mom’s diary somewhere.”
“Didn’t your dad give that to you a few years after she died? When you were like, 15?”
“Yep, and I brought it to Denny’s for us to read. And I fucking broke down and cried right there in the damn restaurant,” I said, the old familiar emotion building up in my throat again. I wiped a hand across my face, attempting to remove any moisture that had built up in my eyes, and tried to laugh. “Why the heck do I still get so damned choked up after all these years?”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t, Hel.”
“It has gotten better. I mean, every year it gets a little better. I’ve moved on, right?” I said. “I graduated from high school and college, I’ve got a good job. Sure my love life could be better, but everyone’s got their thing.”
“Honey, I wouldn’t call it a love life. Maybe a love DOA?” Alex joked, smiling to take any sting out of the statement.
“If you were anyone else, I’d clock you for that. But you’re right. It’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” I took a breath and recomposed myself a bit.
“You’ve just got a monumental fear of intimacy to get over, then you’ll be OK.”
“Why is that, anyway?” I asked and made a dramatic gesture with my hands.
“Gee, I dunno,” Alex deadpanned. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I could only relent.
“OK. Right.”
“Well,” he went on, “if it’s any consolation, I’m not plannin’ to leave you anytime soon.”
“Thanks Lex,” I chuckled. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with me for all these years-especially when everything got so crazy. Why are you so damn good to me, anyway?”
“Because if I was mean to you, you’d kick my ass,” he joked, moving away from me a little in anticipation of the playful punch I then landed on his shoulder. I heard a cardinal chirping in a branch somewhere as a comfortable silence drifted between us.
“How many of those have you written?”
Pulled from my daydreams, I looked up at Alex and counted the number in my head.
“Um, I dunno…about six?”
“Have you tried writing about exactly what happened?” he asked quietly. “I mean, maybe that could help a little too, just write everything that you remember.”
“That’s the trouble, Lex, I have a hard time remembering much of anything other than emotions. I was ten when she died. Everything’s like a dream-it’s…fuzzy.” I took another moment to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. Then, looking him directly in the eye, “I can’t remember her voice anymore.”
And in that way that makes Alex who he is, he just leaned over a gathered me up in a great hug. We just stayed like that for a while, and I even let myself cry a little. When we pulled back, Alex poked me in the nose and smiled.
“You needed that.”
I just nodded and looked back down at the next blank sheet of paper that sat in my lap.
“I can write about what I felt. The action will be fiction, but I can write what I felt. And this…it’ll be the last entry.”
And I set my pen to the page again, knowing that Alex understood what I meant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Pay attention now, OK? This is the important part.”
I grumbled impatiently, wanting to get back outside to the trees and the rain. But she wanted to show me how to make the dough, and I knew that this was important, so I focused in on her voice.
“Flour, got it.”
“Yes, flour and milk and eggs. That’s going to be your basic dough mix. But since this is special bread, we’re putting raisins and cinnamon into the mix as well.” She pulled out a box of raisins and handed it to me. “Here, I want you to do this.”
“Why now? Couldn’t you show this to me some other time, mom?” I asked, taking the raisins and pouring a few of the shriveled things into the palm of my hand.
“No, it has to be now. I won’t be around much longer to show you this kind of thing, sweetie, and I want you to know.”
“Mom,” I said, taking hold of her arm. “Why won’t you be around?”
I saw this look pass over her face, like a shadow.
“I’m very sick, honey, you know that.”
“I know, but I don’t care. People get sick all the time, and they get better all the time too,” I insisted. She smiled and ran her hand through my thick hair.
“That’s true. But I’ve been sick for a long while, and the doctors have done their best. It’s almost time.”
“Then the doctors haven’t done their best, mom, you can get better!” I took a step away from her and the dough mix in the bowl. The rain pelting the big glass door that led to the backyard got louder and I tried to concentrate on it instead of the pounding in my head.
“Honey, I’m sorry. I really am. But this is out of our hands. If there were something I could do, I’d do it, believe me. I love you, I love your father and your siblings, but everyone has their time, and mine is very soon.”
“But you can fight it,” I said, the anger still bubbling up through my veins and into my voice. “You can fight it. I don’t want to learn how to make this now! I want you to show me when you’re old and gray and I have my first kid!”
She sat down and I heard a long sigh escape from her lips. I just stood there, trembling with anger and the strain of holding back the tears I refused. Finally, she motioned for me to sit next to her on the little bench, and despite my anger I did so.
“Now put the raisins into the dough, as many as you like.” Her voice was very calm, and I went ahead with what she told me to do, for the moment ignoring the sick feeling I had in my guts. “Good, now take the cinnamon and sprinkle it over all that.”
We went through the whole process, her quietly giving the instructions and me numbly going through the motions. I concentrated on the task as hard as I could, determined to remember everything perfectly-not just the recipe, but the sound of her voice and the look of her hands as they were animated by her speech. Finally, I stood in front of the oven, turning the knobs to the proper settings and taking a step back, still refusing to look her in the eye.
I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Good job, I think you’ve got it.”
“Why do you have to leave?” I asked, turning to face her but with my eyes still trained on the floor. There was a stain on the tile of the kitchen, a bit of the grape juice that had been spilled during my last birthday party when mom had been carrying the bowl of juice to the table and I had run head-long into her. We’d just laughed and commented on our nice new purple clothes.
“Helen.” The finality of her tone finally made me look up at her. Only her face was blurry, like the picture of her I had once tried to draw. She stretched out her arms and took me into a warm hug, swaying slowly back and forth. “I can’t pretend that I have any way of explaining this to you so that it’ll make sense or make you feel better.”
“Then don’t go,” I mumbled into her shirt.
“I wish it were that simple. I’m very sick, honey, you’ve been coming with dad to see me in the hospital, you know.”
“I don’t care,” I said, pulling back and storming out of the kitchen and into the living room, slumping down onto the couch and glaring meaningfully at the wall. I heard her follow me in, quietly crossing the room and sitting down next to me. She just stared at the wall too for a minute, letting me cool off a little. Without moving my gaze, I said, “Are you in a lot of pain?” And out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn to face me.
“Sometimes…not always. I’m not really aware of anything most of the time.”
“When dad and I come to visit, do you know we’re there?”
“Always. Even if I can’t respond to you, I know you’re there. You make the room warmer.”
“They said you slipped into a coma this morning but dad didn’t want them to turn the machines off until all of us had gotten a chance come in and say goodbye. But I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to remember you that way.”
“Then remember me this way,” she said, one arm circling my shoulders. “Look how green everything is outside.”
“Yeah, the trees like the rain.”
She pulled me into another hug, kissed me on the forehead, and I buried myself there, not wanting to ever leave that place.
“I love you, Helen, don’t ever think otherwise.”
“I love you too, mom,” I answered, my voice just under a whisper. I felt this incredible calm sweep over me, my shoulders relaxing, my heart settling into a peaceful rhythm, and the sound of the rain faded into this faint rush of sound that merely filled the background of my senses. Everything was all right, it was OK.
And when I looked up she was gone.
And I wept. I cried for all I was worth, finally just letting everything go. And for once it wasn't for me; it was for her. Because she'd never meet her grandkids, never kiss her husband, never sneeze or yawn or drink a really good cup of tea again. And I stayed like that; doubled up on the couch, crying because I knew that tomorrow I'd get up and go to school, eat lunch, talk to my friends and go on with my life. Because she'd want me to. Because I wanted to. Because I had to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I guess I was always mad because I never got to have that conversation with her. I could never really bargain with anyone or anything for her life,” I said, putting the pen and paper into my back pocket. “That really pissed me off.” Alex laughed and slung his arm around my shoulders.
“I know. I remember when you stabbed that kid…what was his name? Tony?…stabbed him in the arm with a pencil for making some rude remark about your mom a couple of years after she died. That was pretty cool, damn thing just stuck there too.”
“Yeah, I had a lot of anger in junior high,” I said, chuckling.
“Do you still? I mean, have all that anger?”
“A little, but I think it’s mostly just my natural Irish temper. I think I finally stopped blaming the world for her death sometime in my first few years at college. It just wasn’t worth it anymore, it didn’t do me any good.”
“So why are you up here in this damn tree writing those stories?”
“Because I may not be so angry anymore, but I still miss her.”
He smiled and pulled me over to kiss my forehead, then we both climbed down out of the tree, hopping off onto the leaf-strewn ground.
“So,” Alex started as we walked passed my old house and towards where his car was parked on the street. “Apple picking first, then some drinking?”
“Sounds like a wonderful plan,” I said, playfully elbowing him in the side.
“Great. I know this orchard over on the north side of town that makes the bestest cider doughnuts around,” he suggested as we got into the car.
“Bestest?” I teased, already feeling a bit lighter around the shoulders.
“Hey, shut your hole or I won’t be nice and buy you your drinks tonight.”
I guffawed and feigned offense. “Hey now, there’s no reason to get mean.”
back!