To Capture the Magic

Whether it was the memory of mama’s ivory baby-bottom loaves lining the countertop, filling the air with yeasty aroma, or just some primal urge to fabricate something from scratch, over and over again I felt drawn to the kitchen to bake bread.  My collected recipes made lofty promises of whole grain health—melt-in-your-mouth carbohydrate confection wrapped in golden buttery crusts.

One of my books had a recipe next to a homey picture of a white-haired elderly couple, smiling proudly over an enormous bounty of perfect little sesame-topped loaves.  Another hippie-type baker in leggings and a gauzy blouse and skirt presented her rustic round loaves fresh from an outdoor adobe oven some place in the wilds of Montana.  The bounty on my table felt and looked like rocks.

Where was the magic? 

Mix, stir, thump.  Turn, thump, turn, and thump again.  Catharsis.  Thump, thump. Where was the magic that could transform my little blobs of organic grain into the mouth-watering delicacies that graced the pages of my batter-splattered recipe books?  It most often eluded me.

Some days, my labors seemed heaven-kissed, and I presented delectable golden brown loaves to my admiring husband. Pass the butter and strawberry jam, please.

 Some days, I set fire to my kitchen. Really.

I read bread.  I researched bread.  I examined methods and means.  I mixed and kneaded, prodded, and peeked at sleeping forms nestled warmly beneath tea towels.

When my pregnant tummy extended further than my arms could comfortably reach, I talked my husband into kneading.  The promise of enlarged biceps was his temptation.  I baked on.

Some days, I made croutons with dry impostors.  Some days, the breads would rise quickly having a will of their own till exhausted they would sink with a gasp that made my kitchen smell like a brewery. Too often, I angrily tossed compacted parcels of honey and wheat into the trash can—an unceremonious burial.  But I baked on.

I baked on because of that periodic glorious batch that teased me with promise.  I persevered because of the heady aroma that filled every nook and cranny of the house and sneaked out windows to breathe the secret to the neighbors:  A baker lives here who’s discovered the magic. 

Now many years since my first tentative foray into the world of homemade bread, I have mastered the art.  Well, almost.  I have captured the magic that consistently allows me to grace my table with hearty steaming loaves.  I’ve learned the “feel” of the dough.  I can make the subtle adaptations to humidity and temperature that insure success.  I carefully monitor the rising and resting with knowing eyes. But that’s not really the magic. 

 The magic is in the not giving up.  It’s in trying again and again because of the possibilities.  It’s in learning from failure the surer incremental path to success. 

The magic in baking bread, as in all of life, is in not quitting.  And so, I bake on.

FaithBook?

I was thinking that if God put up His own Facebook page, He might get more devoted attention than He is getting now.  I can just imagine the number of “friends” that would flock to His site.  It might even set some kind of record.

And if He added the Scrabble app, He could sneak in some teaching and truth claims without folks even realizing it.  Of course any “reprimands” should only be an optional link, to avoid being unfriended.

In the photo section, He could include some of His greatest and most famous feats:  Moses and the Red Sea, Daniel in the lion’s den, the ascension, etc.  Pictures of sick and starving children or earthquake victims should best be left for tweets, though, since most folks are only touched by these kinds of appeals momentarily anyway, and He wouldn’t want to affect His stats by making people feel uncomfortable. 

Since many find it so hard to squeeze in a quiet time between work, coffee with friends, shopping, running to music lessons and Tae Kwon Jitsu Arts, this would solve that pesky relationship problem.  While checking e-mail and Facebook posts, you could include God with those you are keeping up with.  It would only take a second away from adding flowers and avocados to your Farmville plot. 

Happy birthday 86, Mom!

A few of my favorites which I will need to add to when I have more time. 

Now see, if you would break down and get a computer, Mom, you could actually see this!  Love, me

The Staff of Life--Your Bread Baking Workshop

My baby sister and her hubby often give recipes on his blog, replete with pictures and method.  They grow a lot of their own produce and make snazzy salads with nasturtiums and such things.  I am a less groovy cook.  I’m more a functional cook, and my cooking has actually simplified more and more over the years as I gravitate more towards a raw and vegetarian diet with a sprinkling of meats, topped off with raw organic juices.

One of my specialties, though, is homemade whole wheat bread.  So I thought I would share my recipe and method.

I use hard red winter wheat primarily.  I also throw in a cup or two of soft wheat, which adds a softness to the crumb.  Soft has little gluten, so cannot be used alone except in items, like cookies, that use baking powder or soda as a rising agent.  My grinder is a high speed metal-toothed grinder.  I would prefer the slower, cooler grind of a stone mill unit, but this is what I can afford. 

Commercial millers concentrate on using the endosperm of the kernel to make a lighter and whiter product.  They even use gas to bleach the flour.  Enriched flour adds back in some nutrients that were stripped out, but they are not natural or in proper proportion.  And that whole wheat flour on the shelf is either rancid or has been stripped of its vitamin E for a longer shelf life.  Preparing your own flour is best.

Most measurements in bread making are approximate because the art of it is knowing the dough as it responds to environmental conditions.  One of those variables is in the wheat.  Some batches of wheat may have a higher moisture content than others, and different varieties from different parts of the country may yield a lesser or great volume of flour.   But typically, about 10-12 cups of grain yields about 14 cups of flour.

When the grain is grinding, you cover your ears because it wouldn’t do to have all those good B vitamins, omega oils, E vitamins, protein, magnesium, potassium, iron, and fiber to eat and then lose your hearing.

These are the ingredients: 

1. ½ c. organic extra virgin olive oil: 

·         Lubricant—allows loaf to expand easily during rising and baking

·         Makes it a softer crumb and more tender

·         Preserves the bread

·         Enhances flavor

·         Helps bread rise

2.      2 T. sea salt:

·         Adds flavor

·         Strengthens the gluten—bread rises higher

·         Without salt—crumbly with a porous top

·         Helps control the action of the yeast—makes the dough more predictable in action.  Too much salt inhibits growth of yeast.

3.      3 T. active yeast:

·          Exists floating in the air and hiding in the soil

·         When you “proof” the yeast, you test its action.

·         Must be fed to activate—combination of air, food, and water

·         Any doubt as to its effectiveness, then test

·         Releases carbon dioxide, which is trapped by the gluten fibers

·         Adds flavor

·         Develops and mellows the gluten so it can trap the gas easier

4.      6 c. warm water:

·         Gives a crisp crust

·         Milk gives a softer, thinner texture and adds protein and calcium

·         Too hard water can retard the yeast action.

·         Too soft water can make the bread sticky and low.

·         Warm—about 100 - 110 degrees

·         Too hot—kill the yeast

·         Too cool—yeast will be inactive

5.      And in this batch chia seeds:  Chia seeds are very high in protein, but I use others as well, like flax, sunflower, and / or poppy. 

6.      2/3 c. gluten:  This is an elastic protein that stretches when wet and so expands to trap the gases given off by the yeast.  In the very dense whole grain loaf, it allows for a higher and lighter loaf, even with such a small addition. 

7.      Oh, and don’t forget the honey—½ c!  There really is no such thing as organic honey, no matter what the label says, because you can’t tell those bees where not to fly!

·         Flavor

·         Tender crumb

·         Feeds the yeast

·         Naturally preserves the bread and holds the moisture

·         Too much will cause the bread to burn.

I have a Bosch mixture, which I have had for over 25 years with but one bearing repair.  Fabulous and durable machine!  I have used it for our own family needs; but I have also at different times made bread for sale.  At one point in the city I lived in, I would make 60 loaves of bread in one day, as well as muffins and sticky buns.  Sometimes I was up to 1 a.m. doing the dishes.  The next day, I would deliver.  When we moved to a new city, we were in a brand new tract.  There was a certain trust and camaraderie since everyone was new.  The kids would take bread around in their little red wagon J .  They personally made 25c a loaf, and the rest of the profits paid for their homeschooling books for several years.

All the ingredients and 8 cups of flour go into the mixer.  You pulse to get an initial mix going, and then cup by cup add about another 6 cups until the blades and dough clean the side walls.  About is the key word in all of this.  If you add too much, your bread will be dry and crumbly.  Too little and it will be hard to handle.  If you don’t have a mixer and are doing this by hand, follow any basic bread mixing instructions.  The principles are the same:  only add enough flour to be able to handle it on the bread board without sticking. 

The mixer kneads for 10 minutes.  By hand, it would take 20, and more if you’re a wimp!

Oil your hands and take the dough out.  Knead by hand to shape into a ball.

Place the top side head first in a bowl with some oil in it—couple of tablespoons.  Then turn over.  This coats the top and bottom.  Cover with tea towels and set in a warm place to rise.  In the desert, most months finding a warm place is not a problem, but if you live in chillier climes, you may want to warm the oven, turn it off, and set the bread in there to rise. 

The rise time depends on the temperature, the humidity, and politics.  Well, maybe not politics.  This batch took about 45 minutes.  In the hot summer, it may be faster; winter, slower.  It should look about double, and if you gently stick a finger in, it will depress and not fill in. 

This next part was something my kids enjoyed, though they were often more zealous than was required.  You want to punch the dough to release the carbon dioxide gases, but not enough to bruise the dough.

Once deflated, the dough is ready to cut up into 5 equal sections and shaped into loaves.  The Little House on the Prairie mom was not a real bread maker.  She patted the dough like she was patting a baby bottom.  Kneading takes the heel of the hand and pushes hard and outward.  You turn the bread quarter turns and knead again, but not too much so as to break the skin.  You want to knead just enough to shape and get a smooth skin on top.  Seal the ends with the side of your hand, tuck under, and place in a greased pan.  I don’t use shortening any more, but I still have not gotten away from Pam.  Nothing else seems to work that also does not give too many added fat calories. 

Set in a warm place to rise to about double.  If the loaves rise too much, they will start to collapse and smell beery.  If they rise too little, they will be too dense and will burst. 

When ready, bake for 40 minutes at 350.

When done, turn out on the bread board and let cool on their sides.  You will know they are done by the color, smell, and the hollow thump you get when patting the bottom of the loaf. 

Some say, you should never eat the bread till it’s a day old.  Good luck with that one!  Pass the honey and cinnamon.

Extra Notes:

·         Get the feel of the dough!

·         Humid:  may use more flour

·         Dry:  may use less

·         Kneading:  breaks up the proteins, straightens out the strands, and develops the gluten to hold the gas for the rise

·         Under-kneaded:  dough will tear easily; will not rise because gluten is not strong enough to hold the gas

·         Over-kneading:  gluten disintegrates and gets wet and sticky

·         The gentle punch down releases the gas so it doesn’t harm the yeast and the dough.  Without it you also have big holes in your bread.

·         Hot temperature:  faster rise

·         Cold:  slower rise

·         Too short a rise:  hard loaf with tough crumb

·         Too long a rise:  arched curve on top or collapsed loaf, beery bitter taste, crumbly

Hitchhikers Guide to Kentucky

I have done some things that would seem to belie the intellect God has given me (Read that:  Stupid things!).  One of those moments graced with a less than brilliant flash of inspiration was when I hitchhiked from Jackson, MI, to a Jesus festival in Wilmore, KY.   Please don’t tell my kids!

It was the early 70s, and many of us did stupid stuff, even unrelated to drug abuse.  I guess it was just because we had sewn Jesus patches on our bell bottom jeans, were having yogurt and granola revivals, and somehow all of this affected the brain function of even Christian kids. 

There was also a certain naiveté.  I was sheltered by my church upbringing, and there wasn’t a lot of trouble to get into on sixty acres of farmland (though we did manage a little).  But to illustrate:  My band in college did a rousing version of the Beatles “My Sweet Lord.”  We sang that at a bunch of churches and youth groups.  I even did the Hare Krishna stuff in the middle because I thought that was some kind of scatting.  It wasn’t till I moved to LA and was accosted in crosswalks by orange-robed followers that I realized what in the world I had been singing.  One consolation:  The country churches in Michigan were just as ignorant of the world as I was. 

I was a farm kid who grew up with a trust in mankind—well, sort of.  Plus I was Canadian, and all Canadians are nice!   So at my college, when I heard about this Jesus Festival in Kentucky, I made noises that I wanted to go, and planned to hitchhike to get there (since I was a poor student).  I really had no intention of following through.  It was bravado or stupido, whichever way you want to look at it.  Problem:  A friend of mine got on board with the idea and said he would go with me.  That’s what you can expect from drama majors!  Now you’d think if I had not used all my brain cells on Black Studies and Philosophy 101 that the thought may have occurred to me to say, “No, I was just kidding.”  Or maybe even, “No, I changed my mind and have decided to do something constructive, like clean the fourth floor community bathroom.  No, I had to save face.

Amazingly enough, I found myself, suitcase in hand, on the freeway, waving to perfect strangers and announcing my ignorance to the whole wide world.  My compatriot was much shorter than I was, and I remember thinking:  If anyone has to defend someone, it will have to be me!  But we got in the first car that stopped, and I think even Michael the archangel said “Oy!” 

We did okay except for the crowded vehicle that picked us up and went speeding down the freeway at 80 mph.  I guessed they had been drinking more than cola.  I was only breathing as much as was necessary for survival; and when we peeled out of that ride, my heart started again.  They let us off in Lexington, which is twenty miles from Wilmore.

If you know the area at all, you are well aware that Wilmore is a bit of nothing, other than the college and seminary; and nothing goes out to Wilmore on that dark, lonely stretch of road at 10 o’clock at night.  Did I mention dark!  Like black dark!   So there we stood, wondering what to do. 

Remember when I said I was naive?  You may want to add presumptuous to that.  Since Asbury was the seminary our pastor had gone to and was associated with our church, I called the school from a Denny’s and asked if someone could come and give us a ride.  Wonder of wonders they did.  A couple of seminary students drove out, picked us up, and put us up in their dorm room.  I don’t know why I didn’t think at the time that was a wondrous gift of God, preventing us from being robbed, murdered, and left by the side of the road.  And if I had gotten the names of those folks, I would have long ago sent a note to thank them for gracing such oblivious hippie-wannabes.  

The next three days were spent hanging out and grooving to Jesus music.  I have no idea where we stayed, what we ate, whose other graces we impinged upon, or anything else other than getting a huge crush on one of the performers.  I have no recollection of the rides home, except to say that I know we made it back to Jackson because I am left standing to tell the tale.  And I told my mother of my adventure after the fact, which shows that I had not lost my brain cells entirely.  

This had to be one of the most reckless things I’ve ever done in my life, well . . . aside from sleeping in MacArthur Park in Chicago . . . or the time after a flat tire I took a ride on the 5 Freeway from two guys getting off work from the massage parlor they owned.  But it certainly ranks in the top ten!  And if my kids even contemplate anything so foolish, I’ll skin them alive!

Some Tweaking Required

            Growing up in a large family—a family full of Irish Canadian storytellers—the biggest impediment to effective communication was getting the floor.  With so much competition, air-time was precious; but we all seemed to have our fair share, and real communication that fostered and deepened relationship was the norm.  There have been times in my life, however, when communication did not come as easily and required some differing adjustments and approaches.

            Since I wanted to see big city life and leave my sheltered country home for the exciting United States, I went to Spring Arbor College in Michigan.  If you are at all familiar with the “hamlet” of Spring Arbor, it is not exactly big city life.  And the nearest city is Lansing, which is also not a bustling metropolis, if you don’t count wildlife activity; but this did classify as being in a foreign country.  

Living five hundred miles away, I had not taken the campus tour.  I trusted that, by signing on my dorm form that any dorm would be acceptable, the dorm gods would provide for me adequate accommodation for my new adventure.  After hiking to the fourth floor of the oldest women’s dorm on campus, I dumped my belongings in what appeared to be a walk-in closet, stuffed with two desks, two dressers, and a bunk bed.   After sorting some things out, I yelled down the hall of this conservative Christian college dorm, “Hey, does anyone have a rubber?”  Now in my world, a rubber was one of a pair of footwear or a pink eraser, which is what I needed at the time.  The reaction from a loud and unfamiliar girl was surprising to me.  Apparently, in the States, rubber was a condom.  This revelation came on the heels of her greeting me affectionately with the term “Bugger,” which in my world was synonymous with bastard.  I only reeled for a few days as I grew accustomed to the variances in language and learned that if I wanted cooked potato strips, I needed to order French fries, not chips; and if I wanted something to wipe my face with, I needed to ask for a napkin, not a serviette.   Fairly quickly, I adjusted to my Yankee compatriots and was only given a hard time at Thanksgiving in October.

Another episode that caused me to re-boot my language skills came at a concert where I was scheduled to perform.   I had been on the road for a while and had grown fairly accustomed to the kind of crowds my agent was booking for me.  As I prepared to start my concert in front of this group, my hands grew clammy, my breathing hard.  It was not nerves per se, but I recognized immediately that my innocent country upbringing stories were not exactly going to relate to the individuals before me.  These kids were druggies, murderers, parolees.  I was not.  This was a Teen Challenge rehab group, and I scrambled in my brain for a bridge to cross in order to link our obviously disparate lives. 

This is what I came up with:  I described one day when I was at college. For summer school, I had been living alone in an apartment two miles down a lonely, wooded road from campus.  I was exchanging cleaning lab rats for free housing.  Another story!  A visiting friend had forgotten his cigarettes (which were contraband) in my apartment when he left.  So never having tried a cigarette before, I locked the door to my apartment.  I went into my bathroom and locked the door.  I looked around.  (Add dramatic posturing here.)  I lit one.  And . . . I took two, not one, but two puffs off that cigarette!  

At that point, my exaggerated drama and the ludicrous content of my monologue had the group laughing.  What a relief!  I used that story to show that my apparent innocence and naiveté and their crimes were both shortcomings.  One was not better or worse than the other (I kind of lied.), but we all were short of perfection.  From different worlds, a connection was made, and my breathing returned to normal.  And just for the record, I didn’t inhale!

A couple of years later, after suffering the loss of my first child, I was on the receiving end of the ineffective language juggling that comes when people try to comfort someone who is grieving.  My little girl Noelle was two weeks overdue and died in my womb, the umbilical cord twisted around her neck.  I delivered her, Lamaze breathing and all, knowing that she was gone. 

I received cards and comments that, though written and spoken in perfect English, seemed like foreign languages to me.  People claimed that I would get over this pain, that I would have other children, that God just needed another special angel in heaven, so He strangled your child in the womb.  Well, they didn’t say that last part.  But they may as well have.  Not meaning to, they were Job’s comforters revisited, speaking and writing words that meant something to them, but nothing to me.  Their attempts at comfort were like knives being plunged and twisted in my heart.  What they wanted to communicate was not only ineffective to its purpose, but destructive. 

I too experienced an inability to communicate.  My desire to not make people feel uncomfortable and my desperate struggle to make some sense out of the senseless stopped my often easy words at my teeth.  All I could do was cry. 

The greatest comfort came from an older pastor friend and another close friend I did music with.  They came.  They sat.  They hugged and said they were sorry.  They prayed and cried with my husband and me, and they left.  Their silences and their measured words communicated more than all the other cards, letters, and condolences put together.  The lesson for me has been a good one:  Sometimes silence speaks the most effectively.

For someone who loves words, communication—being heard and being understood—is a motivating force in my life.  But what seems so clear in my head sometimes needs to be tweaked and rearranged creatively so that what I say is what I truly intend.  We are all so different and one size certainly does not fit all, but there is inestimable value in the relationship that comes by trying to communicate well.

           

Lilly's Top Ten Writing Tips

First of all, spit your gum out, please.  I know it helps you cope with your lack of concentration, but a rule is a rule!  Not under the chair!  In the trash can, please!

Okay, let’s get down to business:  This is a writing class, and I expect everyone to give me their best effort; after all, I will be holding your grade hostage, and if you want to graduate, you must accommodate my every writing whim.

Rule #1:  All assignments must be written in MLA format.  I know it seems a bit OCD to be so picky about particular spaces, indentations, and headings, but c’est ce que c’est!  And if you don’t know what that means, you can sign up for French I next year.

Rule #2:  If I assign a personal essay you can I, I, I, I all over the place; but in every other formal essay, I don’t want to see personal pronouns.  I also don’t want to see contractions, text speak, or slang.  Be professional. 

Rule #3:  Open with a strong introduction:  a startling statistic, an anecdote, a quotation, or an applicable example.  Do not begin with a question unless you are famous.  And if you are famous, you can do what you want as long as you keep me on your Christmas list.  The last sentence of your introduction should state your thesis and preview your main supporting points.

Rule #4:  Don’t preach to me at the end, don’t give me a happy-sappy-ever-after ending, and don’t dribble away to nothing.  Re-state your thesis, but not in the exact same way; review your main points; and don’t introduce new material.  End with a strong declarative sentence with a general application that your reader can take away.  Don’t end by stating your desire to work for world peace.  That’s been done and failed.

Rule #5:  Don’t use clichés or overused phrases.  If it sounds like a lyric to a song, it probably is.  Think of a fresh way to say what you want to say because some phrases are as old as the hills and leave me cold as ice!

Rule #6:  You are not Hemingway, so you don’t need to cut adjectives and adverbs to the bone, but think about every modifier you include.  Read your sentence with it and without it and see what incredibly illustrious form is best for your undying, world-changing purpose.  Get the idea?  The bulk of your text should be short words that you can dredge up from your childhood and not the fifty cent variety that you learned from skimming “Word Power” in your grandfather’s bathroom copy of Reader’s Digest.

Rule #7:  After you’re done writing your essay, stand in front of the mirror and read it out loud.  If you can’t stand it, I probably won’t like it either, so revise before your initial submission.

Rule #8:  If you are having trouble starting, cluster, brainstorm, or freewrite to get the ideas flowing.  If you are still stuck, write down all the things you thought you’d never tell anyone.  Write about who really broke your mom’s favorite lamp and about the time you set fire to your neighbor’s poodle.  Once you get a groove going, destroy the incriminating part or rewrite it and blame it on your brother. 

Rule #9:  Use proper grammar and punctuation.  “Let’s eat, Grandma” is addressing Grandma; whereas, “Let’s eat Grandma” will put you in the Hall of Fame with the Donner Party.  So punctuate properly so the reader understands what in the world you mean.  And please, no run on stream-of-consciousness sentences.  This is not the 60s and drugs are illegal.

Rule #10:  Last, if I get an email at 11:00 p.m. the night before the assignment is due, asking what the assignment is, you get zero on principle alone.  Plan and execute your assignments plenty of time in advance because computers hate you and your dog is really waiting for that chance to eat your homework.  It tastes just like chicken. 

I’m looking forward to a great year, and remember I can be bribed with coffee and chocolate!