Kneading, I could see my grandmother’s strong arms working the dough on the bread board by the wood stove. Bread dough, she’d say, is as independent as a 2-year-old. Both require hard work if they are to develop properly.
I fold outside to inside and push with the heels of my hands, rotate the globe a quarter turn, crease and push, again and again while my brain replays a conversation with a young friend about Western problems: subdivisions, zoning, water.
“But what can one person doooooo?” she wailed.
Kneading, I consider that universal question. When the warm mass sticks to my fingers, I dip a bit of home-ground wheat flour to scatter across the board. Turn, fold, PUSH; turn, fold, WHACK; turn, bend, SHOVE. My muscles hum in harmony as natural as the bread’s ingredients.
Baking bread is cheaper and more consistent than other forms of therapy, and the results are edible. One can’t nibble a human therapist, any more than one can successfully treat tension with alcohol or drugs.
Up to my elbows in bread dough, I WALLOP an irrational argument, POUND my point home. Decisions I’ve avoided for weeks make themselves as I poke a finger into the shiny dome to check the tension. When I plop the dough into my grandmother’s green porcelain bowl to rise, we’re both bouncy and full of vitality.
Until lately, I’ve baked mostly for my own well-being, but my friend Marty taught me a better way.
What can one person doooooo?
In January, Marty baked and handed out 15 loaves: to the wife of the neighbor who has been accused of a crime. To the woman suffering from cancer. In February, 45 loaves.
At 81, Marty is active in church activities, busy with children, grandchildren and interests so varied I’m always discovering new ones despite a decade of correspondence. She travels, teaches morning and evening classes, takes part in a book club, writes letters.
In March, she gave away 53 loaves; April, 46. In her kitchen, young women learn the art of mixing, kneading, shaping the loaves they’ll take to their own kitchens to bake. Marty’s prayer ingredient is optional, but the smell of fresh-made bread blesses each home.
May, 40 loaves, including bread for a family mourning the death of their mother. “This somehow gives me a gift,” she explains, “and I guess the only thing I can name this gift is ‘peace.’” She maintains a large home, dozens of plants inside and around it; she sends me pictures of her cats. She’s kept baking bread throughout the ugly incidents life can provide, including cancer.
June, 55 loaves, and July — in Kansas! — 72. She sends me clippings about Kansas politics along with her opinions and obituaries of people who lived with good humor and good works.
August, 46 loaves. “When I was a child and my mother made bread she would cut off a slice when it came out of the oven hot, slather it with butter, cover it with brown sugar, fold it together and give us a “love” sandwich.” Her grandchildren, learning to knead dough at ages 2 and 4, gobbled love sandwiches.
September, 35; October, 47. Last year during Lent, instead of giving up coffee or chocolate, she gave bread to the workers in her church, and to others in the community. “This brings me joy,” she says, adding, “which in a sense is a selfish way of looking at it.”
The gift of bread carries with it history ancient beyond reckoning, symbolism that applies equally to every homeland, every religion. November, 60 loaves. Marty admits enjoying the fragrance of baking bread, “filling the house like a lovely incense.” And more: “Making homemade bread is not a talent or really a skill . . . It only takes planning, time, energy and love.”
In December, while headlines screamed about stress, Marty gave away 51 loaves. I bite into butter-slathered hot bread. The universe wobbles and then settles into an age-old throb of grace. Homemade bread. Homemade love.
Linda M. Hasselstrom
Windbreak House Retreats
Hermosa, South Dakota
© 2022, Linda M. Hasselstrom
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Photo of Marty holding a loaf of bread used with permission of her family.
In its original form, this essay was published in the “Writers on the Range” series in High Country News in 2008.
Read more about Marty Mather’s life works and legacy at her Church’s blog
10 thoughts on “Push, Whack, Shove, Wallop, Pound”
Unfortunately, Marty is no longer with us, and I seldom bake bread. But I hope these words will inspire others.
Delightful post today! Just what I needed!
Thanks for writing to me– knowing someone read and enjoyed it helps me a lot.
Still making bread myself..tastes good…smells good…takes me back to pleasant times visiting the farm across the road. Not having any difficulties yet, at the age of 87, but then…those are just numbers. My recipe makes 7.
Sad to hear of Marty’s passing. Time makes wonderful memories..sometimes bread..sometimes friends…sometimes articles that someone wrote that speak to us as time goes on.
I’m so glad you are still making bread. I really should do as Marty did: make it to give away. I think I gave away my bread pans too, but I know I made some nice round loaves when I’d used all my pans sometimes. Thanks for writing! Always nice to know someone reads what I write.
[Edited to fix a typo, though I’m sure you knew what I meant.]
What a wonderful tribute to a Marty. Baking and giving bread is a generous act of kindness. I bake bread or dinner rolls infrequently but more so during the winter. Now I’m going to think about Marty and about giving some to others.
Glad you like it, Jane.
And how wonderful if you carried on Marty’s legacy!
The gift of bread…awesome way to share the love of Christ without a sermon! She sounds like she was an amazing woman. Sorry for the loss of your friend.