One of the things I have recently realized as my oldest daughter discovered baking, is that I have an intense desire for sweets. Something that is not second nature to me, nor did I really know what to do with. When you practically ignore sweets for 47 years, except for the occasionally Sour Patch kid, or Starburst, there are so many, many copious amounts of sugar coated in bright colors, in lovely bags that are created by people in some marketing company thin as whistle, eating non-fat crackers. I however, am beginning to look like a Skittle and this has got to stop. My daughter's baked goods scream my name through the freezer door, teasing me. It reminds me of my childhood memory that I've tried to create for them without much success.
One of my most favorite memories of 45 Highland was the occasional visit four houses down on the same street. From outside my front screen door I could smell something strong. It would beckon me to the door, the yeasty smell, rising, literally, through the air. My front door would slam, as I went running down the soft grassy hill of our house, my feet barely touched the ground of the front stoop. The gate with it's rusty hints would swing open and shut quickly, as I hit the lightly paved road, and made the quick short turn right. Past the red house. My hand would fly up in greeting. The next two houses were usually empty, either childless or gone off to work I suppose.
Buy the time I reached my friend, Jennifer's, door step she was greeting me at the door, bread knife in hand, laughing in anticipation of our afternoon soiree. I was completely connected to her mother's baking of bread that she did every single week of our childhood for their sandwich bread.
We would sit at the table and I would eat two large pieces of bread, slathered in soft butter. It soaked in to the crevices of the pockets of air of the bread, melted and gooey. The butter would roll down our chins, and we would laugh like no other visit of the week. My attachment, of course, to her and her family, was no great surprises, but amazing ability to know exactly what day her mother was baking was wonderful.
I woke today at 4 am, wishing for a piece of Mrs. Trueman's bread. Remembering that Jennifer and I would laugh os hard in those days we would fall on the floor in laughter. I have never been able to re-created the bread, though I've come close. But the reckless freedom of being to ally silly with no repercussions are hard thing to come by theses days. I am so glad of those stories that I pass along to my own daughters. May they two have the butter dripping down the chin kind of laughter. I will always recall those memories as ones that got me the through these last nine months of sobriety. A sobriety that has lead for much more appreciation for laughter, melted bread and butter. May my own daughters know the sheer joy of this type of simpleness.
One of my most favorite memories of 45 Highland was the occasional visit four houses down on the same street. From outside my front screen door I could smell something strong. It would beckon me to the door, the yeasty smell, rising, literally, through the air. My front door would slam, as I went running down the soft grassy hill of our house, my feet barely touched the ground of the front stoop. The gate with it's rusty hints would swing open and shut quickly, as I hit the lightly paved road, and made the quick short turn right. Past the red house. My hand would fly up in greeting. The next two houses were usually empty, either childless or gone off to work I suppose.
Buy the time I reached my friend, Jennifer's, door step she was greeting me at the door, bread knife in hand, laughing in anticipation of our afternoon soiree. I was completely connected to her mother's baking of bread that she did every single week of our childhood for their sandwich bread.
We would sit at the table and I would eat two large pieces of bread, slathered in soft butter. It soaked in to the crevices of the pockets of air of the bread, melted and gooey. The butter would roll down our chins, and we would laugh like no other visit of the week. My attachment, of course, to her and her family, was no great surprises, but amazing ability to know exactly what day her mother was baking was wonderful.
I woke today at 4 am, wishing for a piece of Mrs. Trueman's bread. Remembering that Jennifer and I would laugh os hard in those days we would fall on the floor in laughter. I have never been able to re-created the bread, though I've come close. But the reckless freedom of being to ally silly with no repercussions are hard thing to come by theses days. I am so glad of those stories that I pass along to my own daughters. May they two have the butter dripping down the chin kind of laughter. I will always recall those memories as ones that got me the through these last nine months of sobriety. A sobriety that has lead for much more appreciation for laughter, melted bread and butter. May my own daughters know the sheer joy of this type of simpleness.
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