Day 5: Mother's Bread

            When I was five I used to lean against my mother as she made bread.  I’d hug her legs while she kneaded the dough stretching for any view of the miraculous process taking place on the countertop. She’d lean down and swing me onto a stool near the oven so that I could watch in fascination as the dough rose like magic.  The smell that permeated the house was joy in scent form.  We all, my brothers and I, clamored and begged to have a slice right out of the oven.  And, with great joy we watched the butter melt and turn the center of the bread into warm pudding.

            That same bread that at five entertained so many of my senses, at ten caused great dread. It turned my school lunch hour into a trial.  Sitting at the communal lunch tables, surrounded by kids with lunch tickets and large tin boxes with super-heroes and cartoon characters I felt keenly embarrassed by my plain brown paper sack lunch. I stealthily placed it in my lap to peruse what had been packed for me.

            Some days I proudly pulled out an apple, a banana - - or, even a brownie…Then, there were the bulky aluminum foil days.  Like a menace it rested at the bottom of the sack, hidden by other, smaller treats.  It waited…

            If I un-wrapped the silver monstrosity, my friends would see the clumsy crust and monstrous slice of irregular bread that couldn’t fit into a normal sandwich bag.  And they would know that my life was different from theirs. How embarrassing to be surrounded by Wonderbread kids – white, wheat, perfectly shaped - homogenous in every way, from the little dip at the top of the bread right down to the perfectly square bottoms.

            Now that I’m older…38 to be exact…I dream about the smell of bread and the time I had it so good.  I have a little more experience now – about what I should and should not be embarrassed about, and I’ve learned to respect individuality in more than just my bread.

            Despite the fact that my designer lunch box keeps cool things cool and hot things hot and has a matching drink container, fork, spoon, and knife, I always know what is going into my lunch box and to my great disappointment it never contains my mother’s bread.