That familiar smell welcomed me home the moment I opened the front door after school - mom's freshly baked bread. I inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar smell. My mom's homemade bread was one of my favorite parts of coming home each day. My backpack slipped from my shoulders as I followed my nose, the irresistible scent pulling me to the kitchen like a magnet. There was mom, pulling a perfect golden-brown loaf out of the oven. The topside was dusted with flour, the crust crunchy and crisp. As she placed it on the counter to cool, the smell overwhelmed me. I close my eyes and breathed it in.
The scent brought me back to when I was a little girl standing on a step stool next to mom as she showed me how to knead the dough. I remember how the flour would get all over my hands and clothes as I pushed and folded the silky mound. Mom taught me how much pressure to apply, how to tell when the dough was ready. We would punch it down, shape it into loaves, and watch eagerly as the bread baked to perfection. The joy of pulling out a finished loaf and hearing the crust crackle was magical.
Mom used to let me pick out the pans we would use too. My favorite was the braided loaf one, where we would divide the dough into three pieces then braid them together. Our braided masterpiece fresh from the oven looked as beautiful as it tasted, the ultimate combination of artistry and deliciousness. I also loved the round boule pans, as the dough puffed perfectly into a seamless orb. Baking bread with mom was an experience I looked forward to each week. I remember the first time I was allowed to do it all by myself so i do it without any help. I had watched mom's process so many times I felt ready for the challenge. The look of pride on her face as I presented a perfect braided loaf to her that day is something I'll never forget. Though I was covered head to toe in flour, I had never felt more accomplished.
As I got older, baking bread with mom turned into a therapeutic exercise for both of us. We would talk about anything and everything as we kneaded the dough, the repetitive motion relaxing. Troubles at school, concerns about the future, and stories from the past all poured out over batches of bread dough. Mom always knew exactly what to say, her voice as comforting as the smell of yeast and flour that filled the kitchen. Now when I come home and smell that familiar aroma, it takes me back to those simple yet meaningful times. The aroma transports me to my innocent childhood, when imperfect braids in my bread dough felt like the end of the world. I think about my close relationship with mom, and how our conversations while baking got me through some difficult years. I remember the pride I felt when presenting her with my first solo loaf. I'll never be able to smell baking bread without thinking of home, my family, and the memories made growing up.
Even now, the smell of freshly baked bread makes me feel safe, loved, at home. Attempting homework at the kitchen table, I'm distracted by the aroma saturating the air around me. When mom slices into the loaf and the steam escapes, it's the most wonderful sensation in the world. I can almost taste the bread already, before it even touches my lips. The crispy crust that gives way to soft, warm, perfect insides. Slice after slice eaten while chatting with mom about my day. Sometimes she'll incorporate new flavors based on what's in season. Rosemary and garlic in the fall, lemon and blueberry in the summer. No matter what, with that first bite, I'm transported back to simpler times. Times when the troubles of the world melted away with the taste of homemade bread straight from the oven.
The memories made around Mom's bread will stay with me forever. When I have kids, I plan on passing Mom's bread wisdom on to them. Her recipes and kneading methods will be taught lovingly to the next generation. Teach them how to mix and knead, shape the loaves just right. Bond over the challenges and triumphs of homemade bread. My hope is that the aroma of baking bread from their childhood evokes as many wonderful memories for them as it does for me. That they feel the same comfort, safety and warmth when they smell that distinctive, nostalgic scent.
I'm so thankful for the rituals and time spent with Mom that her bread represents. More than just delicious loaves, this tradition with Mom is priceless to me. Integral in my upbringing and our tie. Inconceivable without it. The welcoming scent on my return is a balm to my heart. So emblematic of family, yesteryear, and the meaning of home.
