So that was my facebook post from earlier today. I got off my rear and turned the day around. I laid in bed for a few minutes had a good cry, then thought of my mom. When we were kids, my mom would often bake bread. I mean my mom was the best bread baker I knew. This was before bread machines and "Kitchen Aide" mixers, she would knead and knead. Then as she let the bread rise, she would go to her room close the door. When the bread was mysteriously doubled in size she would come out of the room, vigorously punch the dough down and knead and knead. My mom was about 5'1", the dinner table was too high for her to knead the dough, so more often then not she would put the bowl of dough on the floor and knead the dough in the bowl on her knees. As kids it never failed that would we would ask and ask and ask to help. She rarely let us, for at least 10 minutes she would knead that dough. I always wondered why it was so rare that we were allowed to help. When I got into High School, I remember learning in Home Economics class about raw eggs and meat and just thought that must be the reason. Now to complete understand this, you must understand that my mother was blind and we (my brother, sisters and I) all learned how to cook from my mother. We would read the recipe and she would tell us what to do. Or she would simply tell us how to do things or show us. This was for EVERYTHING. From a very young age I remember cooking. I baked my first cookies at age 5 or 6 (ask my dad about oatmeal cookies and baking soda...).So I found it very hard to understand why it was I wasn't allowed to knead bread ALL the time. Then one day in Minto, a very quiet day, everyone had gone to Fairbanks or to potlatch somewhere... The village was quiet. One of those times where it was my mom, us girls, Eric, my uncles, Uncle Chuck, Aunty Cheryl and the Health Aide. My mom told me her secret. Her secret bread recipe. She told me that when she got lonesome, when it was quiet and when she really wished, REALLY wished she could see so she could drive to where everyone was at, she baked bread. She had cried to God, prayed and prayed and God told her to bake bread, to keep busy, to do something. There wasn't much she could do being blind to change her situation or her circumstance, but she could pray and she could bake bread. So as she kneaded the bread, her silent prayers went up. Thinking back now I can hear her praying as she kneaded and kneaded. Then the time came to let it rise. She would go into her room and close the door. (When my mom closed her door we KNEW not to knock, not to bother.) That is when her prayers rose as well. I know now she closed that door and the prayers went up. She would come out punch down the dough like a prayer warrior punching the lights outta the devil himself. My mom made the best bread. Today, I laid in bed for a few minutes I cried, I felt lonesome wishing to go to the meetings and potlatches and dances, I missed my mom and made bread. It was the best bread...It was my mom's bread recipe.
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