Mom's Homemade Bread, Butter and Honey
Telling bedtime stories to my kids has become a way for me to reconnect with my own childhood. It often starts with me laying on the floor next to their beds, and I begin with something like “I want to tell you a story about when I was a little boy”. They will ask questions, and I do my best to answer in a way that paints the scenes that I stored in my mind so long ago. Some memories are strong, many are faint and fading, but the most important memories are locked in for the long haul; these are my go-to stories and are the memories I cherish most:
I feel the synthetic bench seat on my hands, my shirt sticks to my sweaty back as I lean against the back rest and gaze out the bus window. My little Levi pants are ripped at the knees, my shoes dirty from the mud I ran through at recess. It’s been a long day at school and the 50 minute bus ride home is always what ultimately caps me out. I feel the hot, summer air blowing through the bus, infused with the scents of local farms as we drive through the high desert plain where fields and irrigation pivots dot the landscape. The fatigue of a long school day dwarfs the complexity of diluted scents of cheap perfumes, detergents, and school lunches that are inevitable with a bus full of other sweaty kids.
Finally, we pass the gravel pile road and my eyes perk up; this is a landmark that tells me we’re close to our stop. I stuff my third-grade homework papers back into my bag and glance around, making sure not to leave anything behind. As I step down the hollow steps and off the bus, I take in a big breath of fresh air and feel the warm, South sun on my face. I step down onto the gravel road and feel the crunch of freshly graded gravel.
I look up to the hill where Mom usually sits when she comes to meet me at the bus stop, and am disappointed she’s not there. I snake my arm through my backpack strap and start walking the mile long dirt road home. The journey home is methodical, but also therapeutic. Sagebrush line the road and June grass silently encourage me to keep on the path toward home. I cross the cattle guard, skipping a bar with each step. As I round the corner and look down past the barn, I gaze at the corals, looking for Dad’s straw hat. I see several workers in a distant coral, working with the cows, too far for my curiosity to explore. I keep trudging home, past the 100 foot grain silos, the manure pit, the rows of calf hutches, the crudely stacked straw bales, through the freeway underpass, and to the familiar lane that ushers me up a curved gravel road to where our home is.
The lane is where my legs start to get tired. My tummy starts to ache with hunger. I muster the strength and keep walking, looking back occasionally to observe the passing vehicles on the freeway. I gain a new vantage point of the desert as I progress up the hill and peer out across the open plain cluttered with occasional ancient lava flows. As I near the top of the lane, my nose catches a whiff of bread, a scent so profound, it urges me to run. I run past the neighbor’s house and through the shady elm canopy that shades the road.
With the house in sight, I’m encouraged even more as I run across the lawn and burst through the door. “I’m hoooomme!!”, I yell as I throw my bag in the closet and kick off my shoes and dash into the kitchen where I find Mom beaming at my arrival. Mom pulls a batch of plump, golden bread loaves out of the oven, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the wave of heat from the oven door. She has a big smile on her face as she grabs a warm loaf of bread from the metal rack where it has been cooling. She reaches for the cupboard where she pulls a mason jar full of honey and a platter of butter from the turntable. I sit myself down at the corner of our family dining room table, a hand made picnic table that Dad crafted many years ago. My mouth begins to water.
I can hardly wait as mom hands me the thick slice of steaming bread and sets a tall glass of milk on the table next to me. I sink my teeth in with butter and honey melting down my little fingers. The flavor fills me with emotion as the cares of my growing world wash away and I’m wrapped up in a full sensory experience, the experience of homemade bread after a long day of elementary school. This is what childhood memories are made of!
Written By: Larsen Webb