Daily Bread

There are some days when the air is just right, or a scent drifts in from somewhere unexpected that makes me wonder, when was the last time I ever ate my grandmother's homemade bread?

All throughout childhood, that was a call to action. 'Let's go see Grandma for some bread and butter!' I would sit up straighter in the car, staring out the window in anticipation of that fresh bread with butter perfectly spread across the top.

Grandma and Grandpa lived just down the road. A fifteen minute walk at best, if we strolled and didn't just hoof it. But days when she made fresh bread, who had the patience to walk? Stomachs would be growling the whole way!

Oh the aroma when we'd walk in that door. In fact, before we ever hit the first step, it would envelope us. The scent of a dozen fresh baked loaves lined up on the counter beneath soft cotton towels. Could anything else smell so welcoming? So completely rooted in all that was good?

I'd run up the steps and past Grandpa's horse tack and cowboy hats hanging on the wall. Grandma Lela would be standing there, a tall willowy women crowned with white hair. Light blue striped blouse open at the color. Comfortable slacks, no doubt made of polyester. Red house slippers... and a green apron faded not because of age, but because of the flour it had trapped in its strands.

"Wellll Aimeebaby! Look what your Grandma has made today. Would you like a piece of bread and butter? Or will it be peanut butter and honey today?"

I would hoist myself up onto a barstool at the long bar in the kitchen (I rarely remember ever sitting at the actual dining table. The counter top bar was where we all congregated) and depending on the day, the decision was easy. If the bread had been made that very day, then it would be butter only. Nothing to overpower the flavor of that mouthwatering bread. If it were a few days after the fact, or even a couple of weeks and the bread had been thawed out of the freezer...then peanut butter and honey was a thrill. Not mixed together mind you! They had to be two distinct layers, so I could look through the honey like a stained glass window, to see the slight ridges that the knife had left in the creamy peanut butter below.

"Just butter please!" I'd say, and in a moment I would be handed a thick slice of Grandma's bread (at the very least, the same thickness as TWO slices of store bought bread) , topped with real butter. The kind that she kept in a butter dish on the counter, so it was always soft and spreadable.

Grandma and Mom would then get their own slices of bread and fall into easy conversation. I would just sit there, completely immersed in the joy of Grandma's creation. I had watched her make it before. It was a process I marveled at. Beginning before dawn, she would get out the big silver bowl and would soon be pounding her small fists into a giant, puffy conglomeration of dough. Every now and then I would ask for a tiny piece to play with, and she would rip me off a chunk. I would taste it every time, just to roll that yeasty flavor over my tongue.

For years, Grandma never bought bread from the store. I guess that is why I was always amused that she kept her bread in the plastic sleeves that came off store bought bread! Western Family, Wonderbread, you name it...she had the plastic sleeves. Saved from whatever family member had the audacity to bring a loaf of that tasteless, thin stuff into her house. So with the flare of humor that Grandma always had, she'd keep her heavenly bread in these bags. Even bakeries couldn't touch the flavor that they kept safe.

As I got older, these days became few and far between. Every now and then, I would spy an actual loaf of store bought sitting on the counter. When Grandma baked, it was an event never to be missed. "Someday she might not have the energy to do it anymore," my Mom would say, and I would be hard pressed to imagine it.

I wish I could say that I remembered the last day I ate Grandma's bread. That I could close my eyes and recall the afternoon, and what we talked about. Alas, like so many subtle things in life, the memory of the actual 'last time' has slipped away because I was blissfully unaware that it was a moment never to be repeated. I know I must have savored it as I always did, I know Grandma must have looked as lovely and proud as ever. I know it was the epitome of being at Grandma's house, engulfed in the very essence of good, simple food and the love of the person who made it for me.

But perhaps in my own way, I do remember it. Maybe that's why during the passage of a year... out of the blue the air will be just right, and a scent will drift in from somewhere unexpected, and I will find myself dreaming of Grandma's kitchen... the countertop bar, and a thick slice of bread with soft butter.

Today is the tenth day of the wildfire that has been sweeping through the valley where I live.

Over the past week, there have been fire plumes and thunderheads boiling up over the mountains. The smell of woodsmoke is thick, and permeates everything... and at night the winds sweep it down across the orchards and through the windows thrown open to let the cool air in.

We could see the glow of fire advancing in on us from the North. Every night we would go outside and look to see if the glow had grown any... or if we could discern what canyon it was in. Eventually we could distinguish individual flames spiralling up to the sky. Trees burning like massive, instant torches.

Yesterday evening, I walked out the back door, and looked north beyond the orchard and to the small hill at the edge. Smoke was boiling up over it. This wasn't the smoke that drifted in a thick haze up into the sky. This was close. Close enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

We got in our Jeep and drove down the hill and around the corner. From there, we could look north again, where the valley cuts down to the river and main highway. The entire mountain range from the opposite side of the highway onward...was ablaze.
At least a mile of fire raging down the dry grass hillsides, and igniting every clump of trees in it's path.

We stood with friends who lived less than a mile away on the valley floor. We watched as the flames would literally lay flat on the ground and race up the hills with the smallest shift of wind. We saw, in a matter of minutes, the fire play leapfrog across the banks, and over to yet another canyon. As the sky darkened, the glow consumed all vision, and we were stunned at the power of it all.

We returned home, grabbed our cameras, and set out on the short walk along the orchard and to the small hill that overlooked this view. A total bird's eye view of the fire. With a river and main highway between us, there was no immediate danger suspected... although the thread of a falling ember or glowing ash made us realize how quick things could jump from that mountain range to ours.

My mother and Aunt, my husband and myself...along with our dog and a neighbor who knew of this secret spot as well... sat at the edge of mowed orchard grass and looked across at the raging fire. We watched it crawl up one mountain, and down the next, shooting flames so high into the sky that they easily tripled the height of the trees they were consuming.

We talked excitedly, about people we knew with houses down there. The people who were on evacuation alert (the neighbor's father... my mom's aunt and cousins...) in the next canyon over. And then, we eventually all fell into silence. Hubby and I snapped pictures, me with my digital, he with his SLR. We watched until our eyelids were growing heavy...and we eventually turned and headed home.

By the time we got to the house, the fire had climbed high enough for us to easily see the path it was taking just by looking out our windows. I fell asleep to the scent of fire smoke.
~*~

Below are just a few of the pictures we've taken over the course of the past ten days. The night shots are what I took last night. Blurry, but you get the idea. To put things in scale, the small white dots of light at the bottoms of the mountain shots are actually headlights of cars.

Click on the thumbnails to see the full images!

The slanting afternoon sun cut through the haze of smoke from distant forest fires as we drove home yesterday. I looked down, and my skin was burnished with an amber glow. Simply beautiful... the kind of color only nature could create.

We skimmed along the bases of the cliffs, where volcanic walls rise up from the flat sage valley. The stark beauty traced by these red rock walls made me think of all the pictures which could be taken. Sky, rock, sand. Layers of color... of texture. But would a photograph whisper of the layers of silence that engulf a person who stands quiet on the dunes?

The river sparkled gently between it all. A necklace resting on the bosom of a dusky woman. I looked into the same amber light that glowed on my flesh, as it shimmered over the river. This too had a silence... leaving it's music to be played within the eyes.

It was as if I could walk over to the horizon, and the distance between myself and the Sahara would fold. Two distant points suddenly touching, because of the will of the one dreaming it into existance. Envy felt for the bird who could catch the streams high above, and float away. For them, the dream is reality. The fold occurs at whim.

I was home by the time the moon rose. It lifted up above the same cliffs I had drifted by earlier in the day, and it was enormous. It had the veil of smoke over it, with a dusting of clouds beneath. Amber, full, luminous. As if all the sunlight that had collected upon my shoulders was gathered into one heavenly spot, to gleam with the warmth that I could recall with a mere thought of the desert, and the quiet secrets therein.

Go outside!  Enjoy some of that summer sunshine.

Run through a sprinkler!

Dip your toes in  the river/ocean/lake that you are closest to.  Then take a running start and do a cannonball into the water.

Buy two popsicles, and share one with someone you love. 

Don't let another day slip by without smiling into the sunlight.

Then, sit outside at night, and stare at the stars awhile.  Find the star you used to wish upon as a child... and dust it off.

 

At about 3:30 this afternoon, the heat had climbed to a new high.  Even with the air conditioning on downstairs, and a veritable wind tunnel of fans strategically placed to guide a feeble stream of coolness to the upstairs bedroom.... there was no escaping the sweltering effect of the 104 degree day.

Yanking swimsuits and towels out as quick as we could, we were soon sailing down the road en route to The Swimming Hole.  With the top off the Jeep, the hot wind rushed around us in constant reminder of just how wonderful it was going to feel to dip into the icy mountain riverwater.

When we arrived, we picked our way through the trees to the pebbly shore.  In no time, I was knee deep in the water, sucking in my breath like I was front row at a horror flick.  Boy that first dip into the river is a shocker!!!!  Teeth clenched through a grin, every inch further into the river is a goosebump tsunami.   It's like taking off a bandaid.  Best do it all in one go, or you're just going to sit there whimpering.

So, at last - after a good amount of whimpering, I 'whooshed' into the water with a banshee screech that lasted just as long as it took me to convince myself I wasn't going to die from the icicle plunge....  and then, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - sweet acclimation. 

Fish were literally jumping right out of the water by us.  Flopping and splashing, big enough to make me think twice about swimming over in their direction.  Not exactly sure I wanted to feel some freshwater salmon slap up against me!

Further up stream there was  a huge nest upstream with osprey in it.  The young ones creeled for quite awhile, until the sun started to dip behind the tall mountain peeks.  Then they were oh so quiet, huddled together in the softened light.

The sun and clouds were providing fantastic rays of light and shadow across the blue sky.  The literal 'silver lining' was trimming every puff of white.
I pushed out from the sand and rocks on the shore, and braved the depths to see how far across the river I could go.  The current hit me about halfway, not exactly pushing me down stream... but certainly keeping me in one place as I swam into it.  I didn't go any further, but floated back to shore and was content to drift in that cool eddy of water that curled around the boulders.

We swam until our teeth were chattering.... and then returned home for a bar-b-que of immense proportions.  With sister and family visiting, along with other good friends in town, it was the perfect evening to celebrate with good food and better company.  We could smell the savory smoke as we came down the driveway.   There was steak, chicken, pork chops... au-gratin potatoes, homemade cole slaw, mom's unbeatable potato salad, homemade pear AND zuchini bread, Aunt Rosalie's amazing baked beans (the kind with bacon....) and to top it all off, a tall icy glass of lemonade.  I ate because I was hungry, and then I ate for the sheer glory of eating.  After all, if you don't go back for seconds at a family bbq, something is simply off kilter!

My freckles got darker,  and the rest of me got pinker.  Tops of my feet are tingly from walking in flipflops all day.  The hot, dry air of the valley felt fantastic driving back down the canyon from the chilly swimming hole.    And tonight, I'll sleep with only the lightest of sheets on the bed, and that lovely 'still cooled' feeling from having the river chill me to the core. 

I will think of the sleeping osprey, and the fish who seek the deep still pools of the river to rest beneath the shimmering light of the waxing gibbous moon.