There is a heel in every loaf.

Well, actually there are 2 heels in every loaf, but I am not sure how to spell heel.  I think this is right.  I like home baked bread. Like may not be a strong enough word for my love affair with baking.  I know I can get into the car and drive into town and find several bakeries most willing to take my money and give me a loaf of their bread, but some how that just seems so wrong. It will have all kinds of stuff in it to make it better than mine, but I gotta tell you, it always falls short of the mark.  Sure it is crusty and tasty and already baked, sometimes with an egg wash to make the crust even crustier.  Sad, because I like mine better. 

Mine is made with water, yeast, salt, sugar, oil, and flour.  That is it.  Nothing fancy and I don't have to scald, puree, or infuse anything.  I throw it all in a mixing bowl with a dough hook and 4 minutes later, the dough has climbed the hook and it is ready to be covered and let raise.  I usually make a couple double batches and set them to raise on the stove top.  When the pans are almost ready, I turn the oven to 355.  The bread bakes about 20 minutes or so.  Nothing is set in stone at my house except my naptime at 3:00 while Jeopardy is showing.

Now this little fellow decided he might like to try a piece of the heel on the first loaf out of the oven.  It was his own idea, not mine.  Something about the aroma of fresh baked bread is just more than a human can resist.  He just wasn't sure at first that eating a piece of bread was what he really wanted to do.  I did not push it because I like the heel best myself and there are only so many in a loaf.  So he took it.

And the rest is history.  He used to look for cheese puffs, or orange juice, but the aroma of fresh bread is his new mantra.  Bless his little tiny heart.

This little fellow is not real fond of meat and sweets are not his thing either.  Mostly he dines on fruit and cheese.  Kinda fun to have around.  Looks like I will be making bread for him for several more years before he figures out about junk food, but maybe not.

He does keep me on my toes and he is now trying to teach me to jump.  For the record, I am not learning that one very well.  I think it is this damned old age thing.  Not only am I not good at jumping, I don't even want to try.  It all seems pointless at this juncture.  So we shall engage in our little war of the wills until I either jump or he gives up.  

How ya' betting?

I have a theory about memories.

Many years back I read a series called "Clan of the Cave Bear" by Jean Auel.  The gist of the story, for those who did not read it, was that there existed a tribe of people who were apparently Neanderthals and they had found a young girl who was more advanced  (cro magnum) than they were. ( I may have those 2 backwards, but so be it.)   Apparently her tribe was wiped out in an earthquake and she was the only survivor.  She was found and taken in by the head medicine woman of the Cave Bear Clan.  To make a long story short (since there were 4 or 5 books written ) Ayla, became the protégé of the medicine woman.  I forget her name, but she was capable of calling into memory all her ancestors before her and when a question needed an answer she would seclude herself and with the help of some "herbs" go back in time and find the answer.  Lots of other stuff  happened, but this memory thing is the one I am addressing today.

As most of you know, I have a total of 6 kids.  I never really taught them to cook and yet they are all very good cooks and cook in much the same way I do. ( Little aside here.  The youngest may or may not know the fine art of cooking, but he is certainly an experienced eater, so I guess that qualifies him.)  When I lived with grandma Haas the only time we really ate a big meal was on Sunday.  Sunday mom and dad always came from Nickerson and Aunt Lola and Uncle Alvin would come in after church.  At precisely 1:00 dinner would be put on the table.  Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and cream gravy, green beans, fresh rolls, pickled beets, sweet pickles,  relish, butter, jelly.   And it seems Aunt Lola always brought some sort of chiffon cake, or bread pudding, or something like that.  When dinner was over and the table cleared and the dishes all back in the cupboard, it was time to doze.  A nap was always in order before the long drive (20 miles) back to Nickerson.  Us kids were allowed to run out in the yard as long as we stayed out of the street, which was also the highway, which was actually a county road.  We would walk up to the main business area which was one block away and consisted of Hinshaw's General Store, the bank and a filling station with one gas pump.  Oh, and the school.   Grade school was down stairs and high school was upstairs.

Sometimes if it was really hot, Aunt Lena would run water in her horse tank and we could jump in it and splash around.  (Aunt Lena was the old maid Aunt that is in every family, or was back then.)  We wore our clothes and let them dry in place when we got out.  Right beside Grandma's house and across the street on the way to town, was Great Grandma Hatfields old house.  She had lived right next door to grandma and had planned on marrying some guy and moving him in there when, sadly he dropped dead.  Since she was 75 or 80 years old at that time. she just closed up the house and moved across the street since by that time grandma Haas had her stroke and needed taken care of .  As her mother Great Grandma felt it her duty.  So there they lived until Grandma passed and Aunt Mable moved Great Grandma Hatfield (who was 99 years old at the time) to Coldwater where she lived until her death at age 104.

Grandma Haas is on the left and Great Grandma Hatfield is in the back.  If you notice Great Grandma has sandals on and Grandma has more sturdy shoes.  Great Grandma was a fashion plate right up until the day she died.  The plant in the pot is an Oleandar.  It is deadly poison.  Grandma had 2 of them .  One was white and one was pink.  They smell much like a sweet almond.  I have one that someone gave me 20 years ago.  This picture was taken outside Grandma's house about the time of her first stroke.  She was using a walker, but they wanted to look independent. The window is in front of the setting room.  That was where I slept.   Bless their souls.  I would give an arm and a leg to see them today.  They taught me to crochet.  We read the Bible every night.  Every night.   We never missed a night and we read it out loud.  We did not discuss it.  It was not up for discussion.  We read it and we memorized the important parts and I still know them today.

So where was I before I wandered off?  Oh, yeah.  Memories and the clan of the cave bear.  So there are times when I start to do something and it is like I did this before.  Never even thought of it before, but now I know how to do it because I have done it before.  Baking bread and rolling noodles comes as natural to me as walking, but no one ever showed me how to do it.  I can pluck a chicken and not miss a feather faster than anyone I know. (Of course I really do not know anyone else who cleans a chicken from the point of beheading it, to letting it bleed out, to scalding it and separating the feathers from the chicken and then gutting it.)  Actually, that sounds pretty barbaric, but there you go.  When we lived in Glasco, Kansas, I could buy 2 old hens at the feed store for 50 cents.  That fed us for a week.

Well, Good Lord!  I have no idea what I had in mind when I started this, but I need to wind it up somehow.  I guess you will just have to take my word for it that when I got up at 4:30 this morning I had my head full of wisdom that is far beyond my years and I wanted to share it with you.  I guess it is your loss!  That is what you get for thinking I actually know something! I guess I wish I could remember the things I am doing today as well as the things I never did that I remember so well.  Does that make sense to you?  Oh, shit!  If it does, we may both be in trouble!