Dough Raised Me—A Holiday Story
As we enter the holiday season, we are once again face to face with traditions, customs, and habits. I was just thinking how food is linked to traditions and customs. It is everywhere!Our senses are triggered by aromas and memories of delicious foods-often served only during the holiday season.
I was curious enough to research the words tradition and custom. In an abbreviated version, the word tradition is indicative of an action carried out over generations by a large group of people. The word custom is similar, but usually refers to an action played out over a shorter period by a smaller group or even one person. The word habit does not require an explanation. Most of us have had a first-hand experience with habit.
When I was thinking about tradition, custom, and habit; my next thought was Julekake.
Yes, Julekake. This is a Scandinavian yeast bread made with butter and candied fruite, topped with butter cream icing and slivered almonds. It is a traditional Scandinavian Christmas bread that dates to the 17th century. It is safe to say that Julelake meets the qualification for a “tradition”.
Every Christmas, my mother would bake enough Julekake to feed the neighborhood…which she did. I know because I delivered it. There was more made for family and whoever popped into her kitchen. The coffee pot was on the stove and the butter dish was on the table. To this day, I cannot express my love for fresh Julekake with butter in any way that does not involve drooling and gushing. The baking, sharing, and neighborhood deliveries were a “custom” that she practiced each year.
However, Julekake was the tip of the iceberg…. or in this case a tip of the icing. After all, it was only made once each year. The variety of breads available the remainder of the year are what raised me…….and became my habit.
My mother was a baker. That is not to say that she was a professional baker. Though, it is not to say that she was not professional in her approach to baking. She loved to bake yeast breads. She baked bread every week. I know that there are many stories out there about moms who made bread for their families. Like me, there are others who may well salivate with the memory of fresh bread.
However, I think, quite possibly, that my mother raised baking bread to another level, quite possibly for another reason. She made white bread with butter crust, Swedish rye bread, French bread, cloverleaf rolls, orange bowknots, and…. well, my fingers are getting shaky just typing about the bread.
Anyone not familiar with orange bowknots may consult Minnesota’s famous Blue Ribbon Baker, Marjorie Johnson. I had the joy of having dinner with her several years ago. I was sharing with her the stories of my mother’s baking, including orange bowknots. She promptly informed me that the recipe was one of her favorites and included in her cookbook. These rolls are a sweet doughy concoction, flavored with orange zest. Pieces of dough are rolled into long coils. Then, with the most delicate and deft handling the dough is crafted into knots. Each one is equal in size. How? I do not know.
Once baked, mom would finish each one with a dollop of butter cream glaze and a sprinkle of orange zest. I feel myself growing faint.
Back to the dough raising me. On any given Saturday, my mother would be up early and begin the bread baking ritual. She never bought a five -pound bag of flour at the grocery. It was twenty pounds. The flour tin occupied a full section of a lower kitchen cabinet. Yeast was on the weekly shopping list. By early morning my mother was covered in a film of flour as she rolled and punched that dough till the kitchen table was hopping across the room. Any smart person would not pass through that kitchen while bread was raising for fear that such a passing would cause a draft and the bread would not rise. It was a sacred place. Lucky we were if we had a can of chicken noodle soup for lunch.
By late Saturday afternoon, the counter and table were covered in loaves of bread. The French bread was legendary. It carried a particularly alluring aroma. Perhaps it was the roasted sesame seeds. Whatever it was, at least one loaf would never see the next day. French bread and homemade jam are a particularly good food pairing. I know. I was a willing consumer.
Bread making for my mother was akin to Sally Field’s quest for an academy award. She wanted the recognition. She wanted to make better bread than anyone else. To be the best took practice, every week. The piece de resistance of her year was the county fair. The dress rehearsal was her family reunion. With the fair looming in early August, the latest bread entry would be previewed and evaluated in July by a family well known for culinary acumen and willingly expressed opinions. It was the acid test for what would be baked for the fair. Years later, those of us still attending the annual reunion eulogize those breads. As a daughter of a Wisconsin dairy farmer, mom would serve the bread of the day with ample butter. I’m feeling a bit faint again.
However, the days leading up to the fair were not happy days. The goal for most in the house was to do everything possible to avoid any contact with the baker or her bounty. Any mishap resulted in condemnation and would not be forgiven easily. Once the fresh breads were delivered to the fair, the day of judgement was at hand. So was my mother. She absolutely needed to be at the exhibition building before judging began……the front row seat being her quest. Once secured, she could sit for hours waiting for the ribbons to be awarded. She agreed when she won, disagreed and sputtered when she came in second, and returned home with information she deemed very valuable for the next year’s competition. Baking bread and competing was a custom she practiced for years.
Meanwhile, I ate bread. Lots of bread. Bread with butter. Bread with Peanut Butter. Bread and jam. Rye bread with cheese and mustard. Sandwiches. French Toast. Even strawberry shortcake was made with mom’s blue-ribbon baking powder biscuits. Apple Kuchen. Coffee cake. Julekake. Yes, dough raised me. Hence, dough and I have a relationship that can only be described by the word habit.
I was just thinking. What if my mother had been a gardener? I might be a svelte seventy-year-old drooling over Brussels Sprouts or grow faint at the sight of a turnip. I need to think about that.