With all the kids to feed, Mom made homemade bread every other day when we were growing up on the farm. She baked in the morning so she wouldn't have to be in the hot kitchen during the heat of the day. We didn't have air conditioning in those days (of course, mom and dad still don't).
Above: Some of John's first loaves of bread. Mom showed him how to make it.
I remember one time she made five of the prettiest loaves of bread that you’d ever hope to see, and set them on the table to cool. Well, let’s suffice it to say that I loved the insides of the bread and I just had to get some of it. Being the mischievous child that I was, snuck around when nobody was looking and discreetly tore the heel off of one of the loaves, hollowed out the loaf with my hand and ate the deliciously warm bread inside. I was like a junkie, I couldn’t help myself and before long I had hollowed out every one of the five loaves.
Of course then, just to compound my mischief, I replaced the torn-out crust ends of the bread to where you couldn’t tell what I had done and went about my business for the rest of the day.
Later, when suppertime rolled around, and everyone was gettin' ready to put on the feedbag, someone started to cut the bread. Well, the hollow hardened crusts just crumbled under the knife, loaf after loaf. Mom immediately knew who the culprit was and yelled “Matthew!!” I just grinned and said “Y’all woulda liked that bread, it was soo good.”
Above: Hot Rolls that John made from Mom's bread recipe. Not bad for a 1st try.
I didn’t get in trouble because like I have mentioned in earlier posts, I was the pet pig, and it was after all, just bread. But for some reason, I do remember being watched more closely after that on bread baking day.
In the Kitchen...Again
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