Growing up, Mom always made bread for our suppers. She'd make French bread, rye bread (not my favorite) and whole wheat bread, among others. Our house smelled like a bakery on Bread Days, and it was always such a cozy treat to walk in after school, especially on snowy afternoons, and smell the rising bread in the oven.
The smell of fresh bread is the smell of my childhood, along with coffee and Oil of Olay, the other two smells I associate with Mom.
Years ago, Mom copied down her recipe for whole wheat bread, probably passed down to her from her grandmother who was the one responsible for teaching Mom how to bake bread, and gave it to me where it sat in my recipe box for years. Every time I'd flip through those index cards searching for the recipe for Pork Chops & Rice or Almond Bread (complete with Meg's childish scribbled, "I love you's" and happy faces all over it and why I can't bear to re-copy the recipe onto a clean bit of paper), I'd eyeball Mom's bread recipe and tell myself that one day I'll have the nerve to try it out. Maybe it had to do with being nervous of trying to replicate a part of my childhood that only Mom could fill or the fear of failure that held me back, but I had never tried to make her bread recipe.
But Sunday, I did.
And I had a lot of fun, especially when it came time to punch down the bread.
Or rather, Joey punching down the bread.
It only took three frames (including Joey's finger getting in my test shot) with flour flying everywhere and whoops and hollers from me and Joey's little sly grin, pleased with himself for helping his mom get the picture she wanted.
If I can somehow work photography into baking bread, then we're going to have Bread Days a lot more often.
And it wasn't so scary, after all.