Who does not like the smell of fresh baked bread? I miss the bread days of my childhood. My Mum would bake what seemed to be a zillion loaves of bread to sustain us for the week. Our treat was fried bread dough, smothered in butter. Some of my siblings would dip the bread in maple syrup or spread on beet jam from mums preserves. I chose to not bastardize my squall cakes. Eating them is their purest form with butter. I believe this is where my unhealthy relationship with bread began. Even today, I can have a flood of memories overwhelm me with just one small whiff of fresh bread.
I have tried in vain to find an alternative to bread. But there is nothing that can replace the smell, crunch of bread. The heel was always considered the coup de grâce in our house. Our Mother exhausted every effort to end our mutilation of her fresh loaves and our endless decapitation of each end of the loaf. Being chased with her weapon of choice, the dreaded fly swatter, did little to end her plight. She could often be heard to mumble something like “you little buggers” as she swung the swatter but rarely did she connect. It was a lame swing with very little intent other than intimidation. Except for one occasion that left a small imprint of a fly on my friends ars. Still known as the fly swatter caper. This often forced us to take drastic measures of eating her frozen brownies straight from the deep freeze. Of course these were reserved for friends and guests that lived in a higher tax bracket, the Hoity Toity ones. There is a rumour in Winnipeg that my Mum never did make brownies because no one other than my siblings and my BFF’s Colleen, Sandra and Bunny ever had the privilege to eat.
Sadly, children of today will never experience the joys of smelling fresh bread wafting from their homes. We were probably thinner then because we spent a great deal of time running from our armed mothers, burning off every slice of bread we filched. Or maybe, we were just satisfied in the oral category and now we fill up on crap trying to replace the decadence of our childhood.
Either way, nothing defines a mothers love like a loaf of fresh bread!