Nourished Their Souls
A familiar quotation reads: “Here is bread, which strengthens man’s heart and therefore is called the staff of life.” Bread, both leavened and unleavened, is mentioned in the Bible many times. Thus, making the art of baking bread one of the oldest occupations in the world. Actual loaves which were baked over 5,000 years ago are displayed in a British Museum and symbols of bread have been found in hieroglyphics in Egyptian tombs.
Bakers in ancient times were severely punished if they “short weighed” their customers. In Egypt they actually had their ear nailed to the door of their shops when caught selling “light” loaves. And the English Parliament passed a law in 1266 subjecting the bakers to strict regulations regarding bread weight, the bread makers were careful to comply. Since it was nearly impossible to make loaves of a uniform weight, the bakers customarily added a thirteenth loaf to each shipment of 12 they sent to shopkeepers. This guaranteed there would be no shortchanging and no ears nailed to the door. It is believed to be where the expression, baker’s dozen, meaning thirteen, originated.
We pray in the Lord’s Prayer “Give us this Day our Daily Bread” and it has always been called the Staff of Life. The need for bread in the diet prompted my great-grandmother to teach the art of baking to her daughter from her death bed in January, 1904. Knowing her time was short she had a table brought to her bedside and her eldest daughter Laura, age 13, acquired the necessary skill to provide the staple for her father and her siblings. A walnut wooden meal bin in the kitchen held the winters supply of 100 pounds of cornmeal and 500 pounds of flour; it was usually empty by springtime. That daughter, Laura, was my grandmother and I always anticipated the fresh bread from her ovens. I wasn’t alone as Grandpa was usually on hand for the treat too. The bread was generally done about afternoon lunch time and was perfect with freshly churned butter. In those days here on the creek we had many meals in one day. First there was breakfast, very early in the morning. This was followed by mid-morning lunch that might consist of coffee cake and hot coffee. Then the large noon-day meal at twelve. Late afternoon found us with a late lunch that varied from sandwiches to smoked sausages and peaches. But on bread baking day it was usually hot bread, fresh butter and a fruit preserves.
Grandpa once confided he hadn’t been allowed to enjoy bread straight from the oven when he was a youngster. His grandmother, Helena Chehaski, forbid it, citing that the fresh bread was unhealthy. She had brought the belief with her from Poland and she clung to it all her life. As Grandpa and I stuffed ourselves on the bread drenched in melting butter, I felt sorry for him having been deprived of such a pleasure as a child. Years later an immigrant woman shared she had not been allowed, as a child, to consume the fresh warm bread in her homeland of Russia. The yeast in the bread was believed to be unhealthy until it had aged.
Hopefully that belief is a fallacy as no food item on my table is more popular than warm bread, freshly baked. A few years ago my husband and I operated a trail ride facility and part of the guest package included three meals a day. Several times per week I baked bread in the amount of approximately 25 loaves each time.
This process usually took place in the afternoon while the equestrians were taking an afternoon ride, had gone to town to explore the area or were kicked back in camp reading or nap taking. For a couple of years I pulled off this feat in the solitary comfort of the mess hall kitchen. Then one afternoon one of the regular customers stuck his head through the kitchen door just as I was pulling the bread from the ovens.
For a few moments he stood quietly taking in the process and then asked: “Would it be alright if I had a slice of that while it’s still hot?” His pleasure was evident on his face as he savored the slice down to the last crumb and from that day he always magically appeared at just the right time for a slice. The word spread in camp and soon others joined him. One kitchen visitor observed: “There may be something better than fresh warm bread but what could it be?” Then they began arriving just as the bread went into the ovens, they found stools or drug chairs from the dining hall and shared stories on various subjects. It soon became evident that the fragrance was half their gratification.
The aroma of fresh bread baking goes on forever in our minds but nowadays it always takes me back to that mess hall kitchen. I see old men with slices of warm bread slathered with soft butter in their rough rawboned hands. Men in Wranglers, cowboy boots and Stetsons, but I always somehow envisioned them as small boys in bib overalls and barefooted, perched in their mother’s kitchens. My bread was mental nourishment that worked like magic carpets to take those men back to baking days they had known as children. Sharing that with those old cowboys captured emotions in me that set off a tuning fork in my brain. It hummed and alerted me that I had stumbled onto something beautiful. What one loves in childhood, stays in the heart forever. The bread may have sustained their bodies but more importantly, it had nourished their souls, and was not soon forgotten.
