The Nose Knows

I’m not sure where I heard this first, but I believe it to be very accurate. They say our sense of smell is very closely linked to memory, so a quick whiff of something that you encountered as a kid can transport you back to a time and place long past. For me, one of the most powerful scents is freshly baked bread. It is almost transformative, beaming me back to 1989 and directly into the centre of my grandmother’s kitchen where she baked for her family.  

My grandmother, who insisted that I call her Grandmere (which I shortened to Grom), used to bake beautful batches of white bread that she would divvy up between her children. Along with these loaves came one of the most memorable things I have ever tasted, ‘rise-dough pancakes’ (pronounced rizz-doe). These were made of pieces of bread dough that didn’t make it into a loaf. My grandmother would fry them on the stove top until they were golden brown on both sides and soft and chewy in the middle. Because they were made of leftovers, there were never more than 6-7 of these small pancakes around at once. And for these few, the fight was on. Thankfully for me and my father, my Mom had no interest in these little treasures. My Dad, having no idea the monster he would create, told me to heat them up a touch and dip them in molasses. After that I couldn’t get enough, and I would fight him hard for one of those things, especially the last at the bottom of the bag.

So I, like many young ladies my age, have drawn inspiration from other generations and decided to learn how to bake bread from scratch. I wish I had my grandmother here to teach me how to do it, but she has moved on from baking bread. She is much too busy for such trivialities now, what with going to church and travelling around with her boyfriend. Can hardly blame her.

So, I am learning on my own, with some supervision from Agnes, the lovely and very knowledgeable lady I’m living with in France. It’s all about trial and error, as I’m learning, and copious amounts of patience. Because I don’t believe in taking things slowly, but am a true believer in the value of presentation, the first bread I ever made looked like this:

(Excuse the photography). I had grand illusions (delusions) of a shiny, crusty, golden braid emerging from the oven, just waiting to be slathered in butter and jam and gobbled down before it had a chance to cool. What I got was a dull, dense and pale log that just about took the teeth off the serrated knife. Don’t ask about the taste.

That’s ok, that’s ok…

I tried again, with much better results. And in keeping with my tendency to ‘not leave well enough alone’, I decided to put my own spin on the recipe.  So I added about a handful of sesame seeds and some honey. Hardly pushing any flavour boundaries here, but  it added a bit of personality to it.

And guess what? Rave reviews! Everyone liked it. Looked and tasted great. It turns out that the secret to shiny bread is to spray it with water. Who knew? (Agnes knew). Having made a lovely bread that I could be proud of, I felt like I had really accomplished something. I’d gained a skill that seems so basic that many people overlook it. That was it, I never wanted to buy another loaf of bread again! I can make it myself! It’s easy! I’m a capable young woman!

Then reality slapped me back down to Earth. Third bread=fail. May-jer fail. This time though, I know what mistakes I made and (hopefully) will not repeat them. Remember what I said about trial and error?

All of this to say: Thanks Grom. I now have a much better appreciation for all the work that you did. I understand why you got up at 5:30 in the morning to check on it too. And even though the familial wars that erupted over who got more or less of your fresh bread must have been some reward in itself, here is my formal gratitude, published for the world to read. I bet I’m the only one that’s done that, aren’t I? …. Maybe just one more rise-dough pancake for old times sake?