The Patience for Bread

by Sally Haldorson

A tan froth floats along the surface as I stir the yeast and sugar into warm water. According to the Food Network Channel, the yeast is alive and ready to do the heavy lifting on this bread if it bubbles when added. But I don’t see much life in this measuring cup full of scum. No bubbles. Just foam the color of the organic strained pears I shoveled endlessly into Noah’s mouth when he was a baby. That brown goop that collected in the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin as he refused the sweet mush, pushed it back out with his tongue, no matter what automotive or aeronautical sounds I made. I read the recipe again: dissolve yeast and sugar in water between 100˚ and 120˚ degrees. Hmm. Maybe the water was not warm enough to activate the yeast. The success of the bread all depends on the yeast. For levity. Without yeast, there is no bread.

I dig through the drawer that holds all the various kitchen utensils I’ve collected over the years from indulgent shopping trips and sympathetic orders placed for friends who throw those Pampered Chef parties, where, second or third cocktail in hand, I am filling out the order form balanced on my thigh while I maintain a tenuous seat on an old folding chair. Rummaging past multi-sized whisks and vegetable peelers and citrus juicers, I find only a meat thermometer. I grab it with a shrug and plunge it into the scummy liquid. But the little numbers on the face start at 130˚ degrees, not the 100˚ I am looking for. I squint; I imagine where the numbers would be if they were written there. I wait as the indicator slowly rises up the dial.

Already this exercise in bread-making seems entirely too difficult, this scrutiny of basic ingredients. What if the yeast is not alive? What if the water temperature is not hot enough? And didn’t I see a different recipe somewhere that instructed adding the yeast directly into the flour? I imagine the coming day laid out before me, the burden of coming back again and again to the bowl where my bread dough will rest, will rise, where I will poke my fingers, punch my fist into the mound of dough until it deflates and wrinkles like the skin of my belly. I am exhausted by the commitment.

But today is about patience. I fortify myself with thoughts of the golden, crunchy crust I enjoyed as a child when my mother made bread. I remind myself of the reliably wonderful smell that will fill the house, regardless of the success of the bread. But then I remind myself that it is not about what once was, or what might be. It’s that looking ahead thing, the dread of the process that puts the burden on the creating. Today, I am just baking bread.

The water registers a smidge below the 130˚ mark. Despite the lack of bubbling, I forge ahead. Sift the dry, mix in the wet. Whizz it through the food processor until it becomes a ball and threatens to fracture the plastic bowl. Lift the dough with a well-greased hand and plop it down on the floury board, knead it like I saw the Barefoot Contessa do: I push with the heels of my hands, turn, and push again. If you’ve watched a lot of food TV like I have, you have run across the kneading-bread-is-therapeutic axiom. Don’t believe it. I worry the whole time. What is the right way? How many times do I turn the dough?  If too many and I activate the dough’s gluten, will I make it too tough? Will my loaf resemble a football, like the one my brother threw down the basement stairs when I last attempted this grand gesture at age 14?

I know if I just trust the feel of the dough beneath my hands, the heat of the oven as it hovers over the burners, the sound of the finished loaf when I knock on the top crust with my knuckle, that the recipe is irrelevant. This is old knowledge at play here, something like instinct whispers if you listen. I have learned that if you simply pay attention, you will know when a food is done baking by the smell that permeates the house as it nears doneness. That timers and thermometers and pages of instruction do not provide absolute knowledge, but simple guidelines. Instead, the knowledge comes from the practice. Bread demands a faith not many other foods do. First, I must trust the yeast. 

***

My son is almost 2 ½, with developmental delays, not yet walking, not yet talking…so the metaphor here is an obvious one. But this bread is not a metaphor to me. It is a step. With each loaf, maybe it will become a practice. I’ve not yet mastered (or frankly whole-heartedly attempted) the art of meditation, but I know in my own novice way that the key to surviving this lifelong journey as caretaker, parent, guide, defender, cheerleader of a child with special needs is to stay in the moment. Tend to the process and let the yeast do its work.

I gave birth to a baby boy whom I thought would be perfect. And of course, before genesis, perfect is a myth created by Johnson & Johnson ads and the anecdotes told by relatives and friends of the joys of baby smells, first steps and that oft-memorialized first day of school. (The picture as the child stands before the yellow school bus. Maybe another taken as the child ascends the stairs and does a quick wave goodbye over his shoulder, the fear and excitement held guarded on his face.) I gazed into the future with that same look. I boarded the bus of parenthood with that same trepidation, but also an eagerness to become the person I needed to be to survive middle of the night feedings, choosing to use daycare over being a stay-at-home mom, teasing a smile from a pouty face at the end of a game of CandyLand. Oh yes, I was ready for the long haul.

But there is no way to proof an egg or sperm or zygote or embryo or infant like I can proof yeast. Though I tried certainly with folic acid and a quad screen and as many visits for a sonogram as I could convince our insurance to pay for. I read books and took classes and listened to the stories of other mothers to provide me with that roadmap for this very precarious journey I was about to embark on. And after the baby was born, I planned to pay extra on our cable bill each month to get “Baby TV” to stimulate his learning and join playgroups to motivate him socially and research the best preschools in case there was a long waiting list.

And I believed it all. I believed that if I did everything right, I was guaranteed the happy beginning of a new life just as I had prepared for. But what I was not prepared for was a reality where even the smallest thing—a smile— might be denied me.

Of course, there are certain things in life in which you can have a reasonable amount of expectation in regard to the product. If I buy a loaf of Wonder Bread, then I expect to get a slightly saggy loaf that smells vaguely of plastic, but tastes like childhood when swiped with some peanut butter and jelly. If I buy a peasant loaf from the local bakery, I can expect a thick crust, something that would laugh at jelly and demand right then a nice block of aged cheddar. For those who aren’t the adventurous type, and maybe even have a little bit of the homemaker in them, well, then frozen bread dough can be found in the frozen food aisle. Sure there is some thawing and rising involved, and it is raw when you start out, but let’s get real: you are buying bread dough because it is damn intimidating to make dough from scratch. This is the challenge I am trying to meet today.

Making bread from scratch takes time. It requires me to commit a part of a day to the process. And it turns out differently every time—there’s no predicting. Other than sitting at my desk and typing on a computer, or staring at a television screen…well, I’m pretty much abhorrent of spending half a day doing any one thing. 

And this is how time passes, slower than I could have imagined, when my infant, maybe nearing his first birthday, doesn’t do anything, or doesn’t tolerate anything, or doesn’t say anything. And when he has his first seizure at 11 months, all bets are off. Every guarantee I invested in so heavily when deciding to have a baby has been stripped away and my future with my son is an open expanse of nothing but commitment. And the future is neither black nor white. It is neither hopeless nor full of hope. It is both. And it just is. It is a weight on my shoulders. It is balancing on the sharp side of a razor blade, every day, wondering when the next seizure will happen. It is the power of loving this little being beyond the stars and back again, of staring into his face and wanting to dissolve with bliss, while being so angry that my dreams for him have been denied. And that anger feels wrong, its essence unnatural, as I struggle to smile at each milestone met—wait, you mean…did he just…?—, champion even the smallest accomplishment that a child his age should have done long before.

I dreamed of sending my son to a language immersion school so that he could learn two languages while young and have a chance to travel to another country as an exchange student. I dreamed of ways I would lead him toward his becoming: gymnastics to learn how to control his body; karate to learn how to be strong of spirit and ward off potential bullies; volunteer work to teach him compassion; piano to open the door to music. I dreamed of dancing with him at his wedding, he at least a foot taller than me and tolerating my tears as we sway. To survive these first two terrifying and tedious years of his life has required me to pack away these idealizations in a box, like last year’s Christmas decorations, which may never be reopened.

So, instead I play with scenarios, make tolerable modifications. Okay, so my hypotonic son will not become the quarterback of the high school football team. I can live with that since I never met a quarterback I liked; he can do something studious. But, since he is having such trouble learning, he might not join debate or the science club. Not a problem; he can do something creative, even though he doesn’t much seem to get this whole “imaginative play” thing. And yes, he’ll need to start out school in a special needs classroom. Well, I’ll temper my ego and give him what he needs now; he can be mainstreamed later. And so it continues; I shave down each dream with each milestone missed.

But where do the modifications of our expectations end? And when do we take a hold of the great eraser in our minds, swipe hard and almost blindly, and allow for the future to make up its own mind? When do I allow my son to unveil himself like a late-season rose instead of throwing a handful of Miracle Gro on his potential, desiring a bloom to meet the State Fair blue-ribbon standard? Since I cannot predict his future—not this child who has run the rails and determines to make his own way— then I must simply allow his future to spin out like a good thick story.

In a perfect world, my son would be walking and running and asking for a popsicle on a hot summer’s day. In this real world, I hold his hand when he wants to walk, his steps staggered and slow; my tall husband bends over him, a firm grasp of each hand, when he tries to chase other kids, legs pumping though unable to run; and when I guess right and ask him if he’d like a popsicle, well then, “yah,” he certainly will agree. In this real world, imperfect as it is, Noah must be free to grow his own way, unshackled from the expectations I could not help but create for him the moment I planned his perfect delivery.

Yes, the world will still expect much from him, and from me. It will try to label him, categorize him by aptitude, by accomplishment. But perhaps life’s blank canvas, upon which the future appears only when lived, like invisible ink when held over flame, is also ripe with potential no matter our hegemonic markers of success.

***

The dough is on its second rise. It has taken 3 hours of attention and inattention to come this far. With Noah and his dad out swimming, I have organized the spice cabinet, paid the bills and surfed the internet while I wait, dropping in every half hour or so to visit with my bread dough warming on top of the stove. I poke two fingers at its smooth, floured surface and the imprint stays. Ready to be kneaded once more, rolled, shaped. A swipe of egg white with a kitchen brush to bring the crust to a golden brown and we are ready for the home stretch. An hour at 350˚ and my bread, for better or for worse, will be done.

I consider what will emerge when the timer goes off and I pull open the oven door, carefully sliding out the pan with mitted hands. But these thoughts only intrigue, they don’t demand. Already, I am planning my next loaf. A recipe that includes a spin of honey at the very end and maybe some hearty wheat flour for texture.

It doesn’t really matter how it turns out, because it is in the doing that I find the patience for bread.

Comments

[Dee Gillin]

Dear God, you climbed into my soul and spoke the thoughts that brim along its edges.

Have you thought about submitting it to NPR ab=nd their "This I believe" segment?

Dee & Liam and Cian (both ASD)

[Genny]

Sally...I am here, palm pressing my chest, in the vicinity of where my heart must be, and cry...and smile...I am not alone...your story of hopes for your Noah are (were?) my hopes for my Kyan, and I too feel as if one by one, the dreams pop like the bubbles Kyan loves, and I dream of a future where we are settling for something not....quite....so...perfect as I had imagined when he was first born. Where oh where will we all be in 18 years from now?
Thank you for sharing this beautiful essay, it should, as Holly says, be posted in something major, as it is exquisite. Well done :)
Genny & Kyan from ivillage!

[Holly Thompson]

Sally,

This is a very well thought out piece. I was so impressed with how you used the process of making bread, with your subsequent hopes for a good loaf, to compare to parenting. No matter how well prepared you are, with the "right" recipes, you never know what you are going to get.

This should be published in something major like Parenting Magazine. It is very, very good.