Memories Baked In

I've been struggling on how to write a modern version of The Little Red Hen without just writing a story about a mother baking some bread. This turned out better than I expected.

 

Lots of work went into that loaf of bread.

Momma always seemed to be baking on the weekends. Or when she could get time at night. We had a bowl in the fridge that she would take yeast out of, or put some flour in. I never realized it was unusual that all of my birthday cakes were homemade. Or that Momma made our bread. The first time I saw sliced bread at a friend's house, I was confused. Where did they get the bag? And what recipe did they use?

As I grew up, Momma taught me to bake as well. I liked the chemistry of it, experimenting with different proportions of ingredients. I had to write everything down, but Momma baked with her heart. She might use a measuring cup to put in ingredients, but she measured them with her intuition. Putting in just a dash more, or a pinch less on instinct.

It wasn't until years later that I realized that most of my memories with Momma were in the kitchen. We did other things, and we spent time with the rest of the family, but my best memories of her were when she had flour on her shirt and a smile on her face. Momma said feeding the people you love was the best thing you could do. So when we held her wake, it seemed only right that I bake. My brother bought everything that I didn't bake.

I took Momma's bowl of yeast home with me that night. Someone had to keep it going. Momma might have died, but her yeast was still there, and every bite of bread I made with it would remind me of her. Maybe she was right. Feeding the people you love was the best thing. Even if you had to do it with what you passed on to those who outlived you.

The day after Momma's wake, I made bread, putting all of my grief and anger into it when I kneaded the dough. Just like she taught me. I let the dough rise, then punched it back down. When it was baking, my whole apartment smelled like my childhood. When it was time, I took the bread out. I cut it and ate it, and it felt like Momma was with me. Her arm around me, telling me that my latest experiment had turned out well as we ate. I closed my eyes and savored it.