if I could bake bread

The summer of 1967 I spent several weeks in Plaster Rock, NB.  I  worked as a mother’s helper and then cared for those children while the Mum had her fouth daughter.  I had no problem fitting into the children’s routine. Then the Mother began to outline my duties in regard to her husband.  Even though he worked in the woods, he was a manager and was to have freshly washed and pressed clothing each day. Check.  His breakfast was to be made and there were three options.  Check.  I was to make his lunch in the morning, not the night before ,and there was a list of options. Check. I must only use home baked bread and there were several loaves in the freezer. Check.

I should not have been so blasé about the bread.  It seemed as soon as the Mum was in the hospital I was on our last loaf of bread.  No problem, I had made bread with Mother a hundred times.  While the children were napping I got out a huge mixing bowl, yeast, sugar, shortening and flour.  As I mentally went over the procedure I was thinking my timing was off. Mother always made bread in the morning so it would be coming out of the oven at supper time.  No matter, I could bake it in the evening.

 And I commenced, crumbled the yeast in a bowl; theirs was a cake, we used dry. I guessed how much to use.  Was this bowl the same size as Mothers?  I filled with tepid water; added some sugar and set the yeast to work.   After fifteen minutes or so it seemed to have a little head. I convinced myself it was acceptable so added the shortening, water and flour; shaped it into a ball and set it to rise.  Rise it did not.  Just before supper I hustled the grey, gooey mess out to the garbage barrel.   After supper I called my Mother.

“Mum, I have to make bread.”

“You know how to make bread; you help me all the time.”
“Well I tried today and It would not even rise.”

So Mother took me through the recipe, step by step and measured out the ingredients.  The next morning I began anew. And the yeast worked, the dough rose.  By afternoon I had that bread in the pans.  I glanced out the window to see two squirrels clambering out of the garbage barrel. Each had a bit of the bread dough in their paws.

 “How cute”, I thought “the squirrels are going to eat the dough.”  No way, they used it to play some kind of crazy squirrel football.  I baked the bread and it was fine. Not wonderful like my Mothers, my mother Edna Vail did bake the very best white bread, but fine.  I made bread several more times during my stay; to ensure there would be some in the freezer.

 Every day I went out and picked up bits of the yucky dough and redeposited them in the garbage.  When the lady of the house returned I gave her an account of all that had transpired while she was in the hospital.   She inquired how I had managed baking bread. When I answered fine, she said “that’s not what the squirrels say!”