The middle of the loaf
Mom was a southern belle in every form of the word. Beautiful, proper, and a great cook. Back before her injury on the ice in Minot, North Dakota, she used to cook all the time. She would prepare big family meals most nights and – despite the fact that dad wasn’t great about eating his veggies – we knew we had to eat what was served. I confess that I leaned more to my dad’s side, avoiding colorful “rabbits food” when I could just eat meat and potatoes.
Far and away, my favorite thing mom ever cooked was her homemade bread. This bread had just the right crisp on the outside, just the right softness inside, and always coated in just the right amount of butter on top – lightly golden if the flowered surface. She would make several loaves any time she made it. It was to die for, and she mostly made it on special occasions.
One such occasion was the celebration at our home when dad became a commissioned officer. He’d joined the Air Force and headed off the Vietnam back in 1970, and literally worked his way up the delisted and NCO ranks to become a Second Lieutenant. I was so proud of my dad. I saw 2LT as basically second to the President. So this was a big deal. Us kids weren’t invited to the formal event but there was a party planned at our little house on base on Hollomon Air Force Base, and mom was hard at work to make everything perfect.
I was in fourth grade at the time, and was usually out in the desert exploring or working in the carport on something. I happened to be “repairing” an old radio on the carport when I was captured – not just made aware, but fully caught up and forced by nature – by the scent of mom’s homemade bread escaping the kitchen window.
Mom had told me not to make a mess with my project, so I cleaned up the parts and tools and left no trace. I knew how to be invisible. I went in to get a slice of mom’s bread only to be told not to touch anything. She had four loaves on a cooking sheet, out of the bread pans and covered under a towel as they cooled. That cooking sheet was sitting on the folding table with mom’s favorite festive tablecloth cascading all the way to the floor. She was moving on to other fixings for the party.
What commissioning party? I lost all sensibility. I NEEDED some of that bread. I left the kitchen seemingly dejected, but only to duck down once out of the kitchen to sneak around the other way. I crawled carefully past the end of the kitchen counter and under the table.
I just needed a bite. That would satisfy my cravings for sure.
When mom wasn’t looking I tilted one of the loaves over and snuck a pinch from the under side so no one would notice, then ducked back under the table. There was just one problem: that bite was too good. I wasn’t suddenly satisfied; I was suddenly insatiable!
I watched mom’s feet then took another chance and stole another pinch. More than a pinch but still just from under the loaf. Then another.
Then I started thinking about how this was going to get me in trouble. Not like I had suddenly developed a conscience, but like I suddenly realized I couldn’t keep taking punches from the same loaf. So I shifted one over. But I needed to just take a larger grab to make fewer trips. So I tilted the second loaf and scooped a large chunk of warm, soft homemade bread out, and ducked back under the table.
This was sooo good. I wanted more but knew I was already going to get it bad if I got caught. But how would anyone know it was me? Surely it would remain a mystery.
And so it did for about an hour. I wasn’t suddenly satisfied in my room working on my Erector Set when I heard the blaring yell: BRYANT IAN HAINES!
My blood ran cold and I knew I’d been caught. Any time she used my full name, I was in serious trouble. Mom had cut the first two loaves into perfect slices, then upon cutting the end off the third loaf, the rest of the loaf just collapsed. Then on to the last loaf, and the spectacle repeated.
Mom was furious. But worse she was sad. She had been working so hard to make everything perfect for dad’s celebration, and their master of mischief had hit again. Most of my mischievousness didn’t hurt anything other than maybe disassembling something or making a mess, but this was different. When mom came into my room, there was no hiding or denying what I’d done. She just asked, with tears in her eyes “How could you?”
Oh, I felt so terrible. I couldn’t even explain how good her bread was. I had hurt her feelings and let her down and potentially ruined the event. She told me how much it hurt her that I would do this; how she never would have dreamed I would destroy her bread and embarrass her in front of all dad’s peers and superiors. Then she just told me I could spend the rest of the day in my room and miss the party before shutting the door and walking away.
There were lots of ways to discipline a child. Hurting mom’s feelings and disappointing her at the same time was next level suffering. I cried into my pillow until I fell asleep. From then on when mom made homemade bread, I made a point of only taking what she allotted me, and thanking her for it.
Oh what I would give for a moment with my mom and her bread today.