christmas

Christmas Eve, the longings of Thanksgiving are now reality. I stand at my kitchen counter, meandering through recipes with my beloved Beth beside me. Ah, but this is not 'my Beth' of yesteryears - this is a confident young woman with Strong views and ideals and this is also a confident cook.

Somehow, in the past months working and living within her coop community, she has developed the 'feel' for cooking and baking. While I twitter around, arranging cookie platters and fecklessly sharing my tribulations of nouhgat and Springerlae, she begins to make bread - her contribution to the Christmas Eve meal with Dan's family.

"Do you have herbs - rosemary, or thyme. Do you have dried fruits or veggies?" She reels off the basic bread ingrediants from a recipe firmly etched in her memory and adds a few I'd never considered.

I gather all the interesting ingrediants I can think of - sundried tomato, gluten, spelt flour, cornmeal, wheat flour, a drawer full of assorted dried herbs..and set it all on the counter close to her.

She watches me as she mixes the basics - flour, yeast, honey. As I run out of ideas (and counter space)Perusing the countertop she draws a line in the fine layer of flour already filtered onto the surfaces and says "This is my space."

My little girl defines her space! Where is my helper, my cracker crumb crusher, my cookie froster? Somewhere within, she has taken the pieces of my teaching - added her own flourish - and has become a baker beyond my imagination.

She uses all those sense - sight, smell, touch, even hearing - almost tasting the air around her as she nurtures the first of the yeast, water and honey into a fine foam.

My forehead wrinkles - I kibbitz a bit. "Hmm - bowl may be a little too warm - you might kill the yeast." I mutter quietly as she moves the said bowl from oven top to warmed oven trying to find the best place for the yeast to grow. She smiles at me, and old familiar twitch of her generous mouth - raises her eyebrows just a bit - and ignores me! She ignores the old master!

In 10 minutes she pulls the bowl from the oven - the yeast is foaming nicely - again the quick grin and then, excited and astonished as if the first time she exclaims quietly "Listen to it mom - it grows!" I hover over her bowl - listening - and sure enough - just like the first time I hear yeast growing, I hear the bubbles popping and snapping as the yeast consumes the honey in its bath. We are both in awe and in celebration of the never ending wonder of breadmaking.

She wonders aloud - questioning her senses - "I think its ready - I'm not used to this kitchen - in my kitchen I have a special bowl and I make so much more - for all the coop members." Finally - looking at the clock she decides it is done enough and begins to select from the assorted countertop ingrediants. "Mmm gluten - good, sundried tomatoes..." - her forehead crinkles - she reaches into the cupboard and brings out the dried cranberries "I thought you might still have these...perfect with the tomato and some basil and dried onion..." - she ladles some into her mixture - tilts her head and ladles
in a little more. The aroma of arises as she mixes the flour, yeast, sugars and herbs - an aroma I remember from my own mom's kitchen - dilly bread she called it - Beth's creation is a treat beyond.

"I use something a little different each time" - she murmers - bent over the mixture. She tells of her bread making in Madison - sometimes using fruit for a sweeter bread, sometimes cheese or veggies or whatever is in the kitchen from the farm or dried from the summer harvest.

I remember the day long ago, I came home from work - Beth had been reading the Crystal Singer books and had decided to be creative - not much to work with in that kitchen - the deep fried orange section and hazelnut butter were unique and the first one tastey - but the hazelnut spread has become a legend - not a pleasent one. I smile inwardly at the memory. Such a creative child - now a true master.

When it was time to knead, she cast aside the mixer/kneading hook - a device that I use so I can multitask in the kitchen. She laid the bread dough on a floured board and began to knead - as I had watched both my parents knead, as she had watched and helped me knead so many years ago - the old fashioned way with large movements of the arms and finessed movements of fingers and palms.

My dad was a firm believer in 'knead little - for a light bread. Too much kneading and you get a tough consistency' Mom believed disagreed she would knead until she could feel the elasticity of the dough. I always thought the consistency of mom's bread the better - though her's was white and wheat and couldn't be compared easily with dad's coarser sourdough and rye. Still - I tended to lean toward short kneading - dad could be very convincing...

Beth hailed to mom's thinking - she worked the bread over and over - folding and tamping. The texture was amazing to me - beyond my very best - and I can bake some fine bread! Supple, elastic, warm and piable - she looked up - for the first time asking "Do you think its been kneaded enough?" It was a question, but one from an equal - definately asking for my opinion rather than my advice.

I prodded the mass with my finger - the aroma arising from it so very rich and exotic - herbs, yeast, tomato. "Oh, most certainly, I advised (thinking Finally - she needs me!)" I pointed out the smooth surface, patterned with stretchings and texturized clefts. "wonderful elasticity!" She shook her head - "Not quite I think. I've seen (the other bread maker of the coop whose name escapes me so I will call him baker) baker make the most beautiful doughs - doughs almost alive they are so wonderful." She continued with her kneading and sure enough - the glistening dough became even more responsive - lighter and more elastic and softer. I bowed to her mastery and took a turn at kneading - just for the love of it.

Once in the pans, and rising, the bread was beautiful to behold - no need for butter or egg topping on this!

In the oven - oh the aroma cannot be described - so enticingly rich.

And that first warm slice - the texture I dream of when my family returns to my home for gatherings. Slathered with butter - melting into the bread, or just plain - no topping at all. Three beautiful loaves ready for the dinner.

I asked - "Can I only bring one to them and save the rest for tomorrow." (These people can not possibly appreciate the delicate nuances of this bread, particularly amoung all the other food being brought)

She shrugged nonchiantly, "If you wish, but its better the first day."

I selfishly kept two loaves for home - and she was right - the next day the loaves were loaves again - gone the magical essence of the first taste.



I am content. It was not the kitchen of old. Gone the teacher and student, gone the master and eager apprentice.

This is a kitchen so much finer - some much more exciting and inspired. Two masters, comparing notes, bringing each the other to new heights.

So sad that she had so little time here in my home. So very lucky for her coop...