Self Portrait Tuesday--Comfort Food

When I was a little girl my father was in the Air Force so every time he was transfered to some exotic location we stabilized the family by going to my grandparent's house while he got settled, then we would all pack up and move where he was.

Granner always made homemade bread and chocolate chip cookies. It is the homemade bread that brings me comfort (and inches on my waste I might add). She would bake 8 loaves every week, always kneaded by hand. The first loaf was cut open right down the middle while it was still so hot you had to hold it with a dish towel while you cut it. Any children in the house were allowed to dig out the middle of the loaf of bread, roll it in as much butter as they wanted and treasure each morsel. Granner then ate the crust. She always made us feel like she was taking the left over and giving us the best. It was not until I was an adult that I experienced the joy of a hot crust of homemade bread. She was getting the best part. But I digress.

There is no time or place in my life that fills me with more comfort, security, peace of mind and joy than the time I spent in Granner's kitchen where I learned to make bread by hand, kneading it in the large round bread pan, punching it down after the first rise, eating raw bread dough.

Granner's kitchen was red and white. It was so small, I don't know how she could stand it. The table was built in with a bench on 3 sides. If you got stuck in the back at the table and needed to get out before the meal was over, you had to crawl under the table.

The kitchen was small, the table inconvenient, but this we all knew, when we were at Granner and Gramp's house, we were loved.

Old Fashioned White Bread Recipe

3 packages yeast
3/4 C. warm water
1/2 C. sugar
2 T. salt
2 C. milk
1 C. shortening
1 1/4 C. water
2 eggs
10 -12 C. flour

Dissolve yeast in warm water with 1 T. sugar in a small bowl. Warm milk and butter in a pan until the butter melts. Add water to cool to lukewarm. Add 2 beaten eggs and salt. In a large bowl have ready 10 C. of flour. Add milk mixture and yeast. Mix well, adding enough flour to make a stiff dough. Knead the dough on a floured board about 10 minutes until smooth and satiny. Place dough in greased bowl, cover and set bowl in a warm place to rise until doubled.

After it has doubled punch it down and let it rise a second time.Divide dough into 4 pieces. Shape into loaves and place in 4 greased 9x5x3 inch bread pans. Let rise until doubled again. Place in oven to bake at 350°F. 35-40 minutes.

When bread is baked, if you tap on the top of the loaves it should sound hollow. Remove from pans immediately, brush the top with butter and cool on racks.

One Fun Day

We all have specific days that are emblazoned in our memories. Some of them are happy days, some of them are sad days, but they are there, ready to pop up unexpectedly. I have one such day spent with my Great-grandfather.

I could not have been more than ten years old. We had gone to Blanding, Utah to see my great-grandparents, Grandpa and Grandma Hurst. One day on this visit, I spent working outside with Grandpa Hurst.

It was probably a typical day for him. We worked in the yard and picked grapes in the grape arbor. The grape arbor was build around a frame with grapes growing up the sides and over the top so it was completely shaded when you went inside. We went into the root cellar and got potatoes and carrots out for dinner and took them into Grandma Hurst.

Then we worked together to make a bug catcher. We made a large flat square pan out of metal and then made a frame for it so it was about waist high for a grown-up. We filled the pan with sugar water and hung a light very close to it to attract and catch the bugs. We talked, or rather I talked, non stop and followed Grandpa Hurst around in the beautiful crisp spring air, feeling safe and happy.

That night, we sat on the back lawn eating dinner. Their house was far too small to have company inside for a meal. As we sat and visited and ate, someone commented on Grandpa Hurst’s fine bug catcher. Grandpa Hurst thanked him and said “I couldn’t have done it without Sandra.”

Now, you know and I know that a nine/ten year old girl working outside with an 80 year old man is no help. When I look back now, having moved closer to his end of the life spectrum, I know I must have been a great bother to him. However, he never made me feel that way and with that one simple statement immeasurably raised my self-esteem.

Knowing my great grandparents makes me one of the lucky ones. My great grandfather and great grandmother were George and Mary Hurst. I knew and loved both of them.

My Great-grandma's house

My Great-grandma’s house was huge. It was surrounded by at least 5 acres of land. The grape arbor stretched on for yards and yards. The barn was big enough to house a jet. The animal pens were so tall even Great-grandpa Hurst couldn’t see over them and he was tall. The trees surrounding the house were full grown and offered comfort and shade. At night the air was crisp and clean as we sat and visited and played and ate out on the back lawn. I used to play for hours in the grape arbor. The root cellar was a little frightening for me, I only went down there when an adult went with me, but when I entered, the musty smell of moist earth and stored vegetables was so inviting. It told my senses that there would always be food at Great-grandma’s house.

Great-grandpa Hurst had made a box for cutting homemade bread. It was simply a three-sided box; just the size of a loaf of homemade bread with a slit to put the knife in just far enough back from the front to cut a perfect slice of bread every time.

I don’t remember where I slept at my Great-grandma’s house, but I always looked forward to visiting this place in southern Utah.

Several years ago I revisited Great-grandma’s house. I drove right to it after a 30-plus year absence. There it was in all its run-down-splendor. A little bitty, one bedroom house sitting on about 1 acre of land. The grape arbor, long since dead, was there--about 10 feet long. The barn was there, about the size of an average barn. The bug box Great-grandpa made and filled with honey to catch the night insects while we sat in the backyard was still there, dry and useless. There was a bed frame and springs sitting out on the front lawn, well used by the local small animals. The windows were all gone and the remnants of curtains blew out through the gaping holes. This grand palace was just a little, pitiful piece of property no one wanted. I stood looking on and remembered that I was surprised to find out that the reason for the bread box cutter was because Great-grandma had gone so blind she could not see to cut a straight piece of bread. And I remembered the story my mother related to me about a time we were all there sleeping—outside, on the floor, on the couch—she had to get up in the night and go to the bathroom. There was only one bathroom and you had to walk through Great-grandma’s room to get there. When she tip-toed in she saw Great-grandma with her head on Great-grandpa’s chest, he with his arm around her, both sound asleep, they were both in their 80’s then. I feel grateful to have been included in that kind of love.

Maybe no one wants that land, but oh, how I hated to walk away.