My maternal grandmother was a woman of vast skills. She was an excellent cook and baker, could refinish, repair and restore just about any piece of furniture, put down several types of flooring, play the violin and garden like nobody’s business.
Not a perfect woman by any means, but when it came to her and said skills, her biggest flaw was hating when she wasn’t good at something right out of the gate. There in is a quick true story.
When she was a newlywed she tried to make homemade bread for the first time. She did everything right, or so she thought, but the dough refused to rise. Just lay there like a lump of, well, dough that wouldn’t rise, I guess. She was so embarrassed by her failure she decided to get rid of the evidence of her shame. She buried the dough in the back yard.
The rest of the day went on, seemingly uneventful. Until the afternoon sun moved to hit the mound of dirt that hid her secret. The rays hit the spot and caused the ground to warm up just enough to activate the yeast in the dough. As day slid into evening, the cooling air spread a low hanging mist in the yard and the concoction began to rise, pushing its way out of the ground.
It was Night of the Living Bread.
