a lump of dough and a place to grow

My mom used to mass produce homemade bread in our kitchen. She ground the wheat herself and baked the bread in #10 cans, so each slice was a huge circle. She did this regularly, and her bread made up a large part of our daily diet. We had our trademark circular peanut butter sandwiches in our school lunches, which were more the mystery than the envy of the cafeteria.

Why is your bread round?

(Defensively) Well, why isn't yours?

It was whole-wheat goodness, which at times seemed oppressive. Why couldn't we have white Wonder bread like the other kids?

Because mom knew what was best. Mom's bread was healthy, filling, and comfortingly ever-present. And on baking day it was nothing short of a delicacy. I can still smell, taste and touch it. The aroma was one thing, but there was nothing better than a piece of bread fresh from the oven, smothered with honey. Everyone wanted the domed top: the coveted "heel." We could easily devour a whole loaf in an evening.

Sometimes I was my mom's "helper." If I wanted she would give me my own lump of dough to shape into a loaf for myself. I would play with it and sometimes make it into an animal shape, using little dough balls and coils. I would incorporate different spices and color it with food coloring. I would dust it with sugar or salt. It became a masterpiece in my eyes, my own edible art. I don't remember being chided for the mess or the silliness. I remember feeling free and capable.

My mom taught me how to make scrumptious special occasion rolls, cutting dough in circles, brushing on melted butter, and baking until golden brown. She taught me to make pie crusts with fluted edges, and how to decorate cakes, although I never could replicate her frosting roses. She gave me the assignment of Sunday dessert and didn't mind at all when I made it more complicated than it needed to be...like molded orange mousse, individual parfaits, or ice cream cake. My mom allowed me the run of the kitchen. I poured over recipes and baked dessert after dessert. I created my own cookie recipes, the results of which were often inedible. I made up my own pancake toppings, wacky after school snacks, and exotic entrees that required special ingredients. Once, I stayed up half the night making gazpacho and empanadas to impress my Spanish class. She let me have at it.

I suppose my culinary interests were to some degree helpful to my family. I suppose I cleaned up after myself, most of the time. But I think in general it took a great deal of patience and tolerance on my mom's part to have me invade her kitchen. She is a follow-the-recipe kind of a cook and a no-nonsense kind of a homemaker. And yet she gave me latitude to grow in my own way. The closest my mom ever came to scolding me for my experiments was, "you're going to eat that, right?"

So Happy Mother's Day, mom. And thanks for the lump of dough.