Returning. . .

I was trying to remember how many years I've made this bread, this oatmeal bread.  The first time was in Wake Forest, in that kitchen full of light, that kitchen we moved into in the mid 1980's, after living in an Airstream camper for two years while renovating.  My dear sister had given me Beard on Bread, a bible at the time by the late, renowned James Beard. I found within it a recipe that sounded intriguing, one of the author's favorites.

I have made modifications over the years, reducing salt, using honey instead of molasses, some whole grain flours.  It has became our "house bread", made over and over in the big yellow glass bowl that was my mother's until my dad modernized her kitchen.  It is a recipe I come back to when I need to get my hands in the dough, when I've been too long away from the gentle rhythms of kneading, of rising, of slow and steady progression to maturity.

My version has the loaves in the refrigerator overnight.  This morning, while the song sparrow does her roosterish chore as she does each morning at 5:30, announcing the day, these cold loaves slowly warm up on the counter.  They will go in the oven when they have quietly become 62 degrees, up from their 34-degree bed.

I noticed when I took them out earlier that their tops looked a little caved-in.  I know why, after all these years.  It is because yesterday, when I was making them, I was careless, and I let the yeast work, more than once, expanding the dough more times than this formula can handle.  I had to stir it down, more than once, forcing it to do its work more than once, because I was too distracted to follow its lead. Those of you who are bread bakers will know what I mean.

But even if you are not a bread baker, you will know what it means when one fights the natural rhythms of something living. And yeast is living, especially when encouraged with honey and flour and a warm kitchen.

There will be bread.  It will taste wonderful, as usual.  But the texture will be different, looser, and there may well be a space between the body of the loaf and the top crust, unusual.  It will work out, differently though, then if I had been paying attention, if I had been more respectful.

Yesterday was the same day I finally planted the seed potatoes that had been growing sprouts in the dark cellar.  It was past time, way past time.  I'm almost embarrassed to tell you about it.  The long shoots just keep growing when it is past time, seeking the light.  This is supposed to happen underground, within the deep rich earth that will give rise to more potatoes, new potatoes.  They aren't supposed to have to wind through air, searching.

I planted them anyway, though it is long past time.  We have had an unusually long, cool Spring, and perhaps it will all work out.  Perhaps there will be more potatoes.  I don't know.

While I was in the garden, overgrown for lack of tending, I picked strawberries and ate emergent pea pods off the pea vines, making their wild way up the trellis.  Or trying to.  Those of you who have grown peas know that they have these sweet tendrils that reach out from the vine to find something to hold onto.  If the gardener isn't paying attention, if she's off somewhere with her red suitcase, instead of helping them find a support, they will wind onto each other, dragging the whole shebang to the ground, a mass of vines and confusion.  I unwound what I could, removed the broken pieces, and apologized to them, silently.  Even though there was no one listening, it just seems wiser to keep it to yourself when you are apologizing to pea plants.

I've been away, you see.  Since we've talked, I've either been away, or changing sheets for houseguests.  As much as I love it, and I do, if I do it too long, too continuously, my roots begin to dry up.  If I water too shallowly, for too long, I start moving to the surface for my nourishment, and I'm increasingly vulnerable to fluctuating conditions: enough water, too much, enough sun, too much.  There isn't the steadiness, the consonant rhythm, the reserve that comes from quiet, consistent tending.

I'm getting back to that.  Slowly.  I can feel it.  I'll let go of this imperfect bread, taking it today to it's intended recipient.  The potatoes will not be as prolific as they would have been, had they had a more loving start.  The peas will be fine, although perhaps not as photo-ready as they would have been in tended columns.

Meanwhile, thanks for waiting.  Thanks for your patience.  It's good to be (almost) back. . .