love of a hearty, artisan bread.
The kids and I were planning on visiting my grandmother yesterday, but
it didn't pan out. Good thing, too, because as we walked in today, my
six year old started sniffing and asked what was the yummy smell.
That aroma is instantly recognizable and means only one thing: my
grandmother made homemade bread. Those of you who have had it know it
is the BEST bread ever...A crunchy and crispy exterior with a soft,
pillowy interior. I prefer the heels of the bread because it has the
best of both worlds.
Early in our marriage, David told me I needed to learn how to make my
vovo's bread. As if it is that simple. I told him that was impossible.
Only she can make her bread. One time she sent the dough home, already
a shaped ball in the bread pan, and all my mom had to do was bake it.
When we pulled it out of the oven it didn't look the same and didn't
taste nearly as good as Vovo's. He still didn't buy my excuses. Of
course, David is the same man who sat in a bar in the Azores insisting
that somewhere there was a map of my mom's earthquake evacuated and
deserted village and that we could use the aforementioned map to find
her old home of rocks. "Every inch of this earth is mapped!" he
insisted as the Azorians scoffed at his ridiculous pipe dreams. The
next day, he found the map. We soon found ourselves surrounded by
overgrown blue hydrangeas in the middle of a desolate village on an
Atlantic ocean cliff. He may have a point.
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