Brown Bread

Making bread on the Ranch was a necessity, not born out of whim or a need for a hobby. The trips to town were not frequent enough to insure fresh bread for the family. Betty, my mother, was the bread maker in our family and she was loyal to the role for many years, well into the time when she could have bought the bread in town. She used a recipe from a nursing colleague and dear friend, and never did sway from that except to make french bread.
The bread is legendary. My family in Switzerland used to love the bread so much that my mother once brought a loaf over with her during one of their visits. I remember as a teenager I developed an addiction to the bread toasted with honey for an entire summer. I would take my toast and a coffee down to the beach and truly enjoyed my breakfast.
The only time the bread was not so popular was in elementary school when I felt self conscious of it's "lumpy" and brown nature, wishing that I had white bread like everybody else. Thankfully this period passed quickly.
We rarely make bread in my family, and most of our bread comes from our close friend, Janice Cannon, who has the Little Red Hen Bakery, www.littleredhen.ca.  My daughter is an "apprentice baker" at the Little Red Hen and was my knowledgeable assistant as we made this bread.

"Cec's Whole Wheat Bread"

Mix 1.5 tsp. of yeast with 1 tsp. of sugar in a 1/4 cup of cold water. Set aside.

I have confessed that I am not much of a cook and that includes baking. I do take a very precision approach to baking, following the recipe exactly. I remotely recall from my high school cooking class days that baking is more scientific in nature, and to insure success it is important to use exact measurements, hence the measuring spoons.

In a beautiful antique bowl. or whatever you have around if you must, mix together 1.5 tbsp. of oil, 1 tbsp. of malt or molasses, half a cup of brown sugar, and half a spoon of salt. Add 4 cups of hot water and 1 1/2 cups of cold water. Mix it all up.
Add 3/4 cup of Sunnyboy, Red River or any 7 grain cereal. 1 tbsp. of wheat germ, 1 tbsp. of bran.

Next is 5 cups of brown flour.  Now for the not so scientific part where I had to call in the expert, my daughter, who has put in many hours with the local bread guru, Little Red Hen (alias Janice).
It is at this point that we have to add the yeast but I recalled a vague childhood memory where my mother dictated that the yeast mixture had to look frothy in order to be "ready". My in house expert insured me that was not the case and that I had to just be sure that the yeast granules had disintegrated, which they had.

 The yeast, contrary to childhood memory, ready to be added in after the brown flour.

Now we have to add flour until the dough is no longer sticky. There was some controversy as to when this had happened, and finally as the chief bread maker, I added a bit more flour. This is also a time when it is very nice to have an assistant to keep adding more flour under your direction so you don't have to take your hands that are all covered with dough out of the bowl to add more flour.

The dough, ready to be covered up. It was at this point that another childhood memory surfaced, which was to coat one side of the dough with oil, and then flip it over into the bowl, thus making it easy to take out later on.

Make your dough as cozy as can be and find a warm spot. We are fortunate to have a massive propane stove that has the perfect resting place, very similar to what my great-grandparents would have used in the days of the wood cooking stoves. Allow the dough to rise until double. It can be punched down and allowed to rise again, time permitting.

Divide into four and put into pans. Allow to rise double the size again.

Cook at 400 degrees for 10 min. and then 35 min. at 350 degrees. The bread is ready when knocked it makes a hollow sound.

I know that there are those out there that believe I have no right to these family recipes or stories that they inspire. This collection of stories is the sights, sounds, smells and taste of the Ranch. Every story that I write I claim my part of this history and a commitment to the present.

It is the truth as I know it to be.

The lovely sound of T in True. A ringing sound, like a bell.

The R, like a deep roar.

The rest of the word, a whisper.

Where does this word hide when you are beaten down with lies?

It slips into those little corners where the broom does not reach.

It lies, quietly, waiting.

Many days can go by, feeling deserted by the sweet ring, the soft whisper.

Gone, and alone you feel.

It is only patience that can save you now.

In the dark moments in between truth and doubt is when the horrors arrive,

waving their flags of defeat, blowing horns of despair.

A loud raucous call to your doom.

Don’t go.

No, wait.

Wait, and I am sure hope will arrive, and quick on the heals, optimism.

Take that force, no dramatics. A rambling kind of journey, with love.

Oh yes, love will be there too.

And with all of that the world opens, opens right up and hugs you tight.

Sets you up on your feet, dusts you off.

It is just as it will be.

 "Caroline helping to make bread". A sketch of me done by my grandmother, Renee.