I want to leave before my father wakes. There’s no way I can stand with him in the kitchen and make small talk while the coffee percolates. Or, even worse, discuss the things revealed last night. But he’ll sleep until noon, at least, and I think I should make him bread so he will know I still love him. I can’t bring myself to stay any longer, though. I leave a note—Be in touch soon. Love you. Liesl—and tape it to the can of Maxwell House on the counter.
I drive back to Vermont and the trip is hard because I don’t want to think about anything. I try counting barns and admiring the old farmhouses. I stop for gasoline and another apple juice. Finally, I force the picture behind my eyes to become a sheet of clean white paper. Whenever a word drifts onto it, I erase it. This works, for a while, but the words come faster and faster, and like playing Missile Command on my father’s Atari, eventually I can’t keep up. I know this; as a child I would imagine all sorts of scenarios, from decorating elaborate cakes to simply pulling up a zipper, and the more I tried to control the daydreams, the more independent they became, spinning in a reality all their own. Now all the words begin piling in the center—adoption, illness, suicide, secret, Mary Lombardi—each one larger and darker than the previous. I imagine the corners folding in, covering all the accumulated words, but the other side of the page is gridded and filled already too, in handwriting I recognize as my mother’s, a single, neat, accusing letter in every box.
“Stop,” I shout, and then a moan. “Please, please stop.”
They do. My mind clears. Perhaps God takes mercy on me.
Early Sunday morning streets in downtown Billingston are blank canvases, waiting to be colored by people still in bed, or in church, or driving from a few hours away for a lovely day trip of leaf peaking and antique markets. I park the car behind Wild Rise and enter the back way, directly into the kitchen, and it has been cleaned by Seamus, no trace of last night’s dinner seen. He’s left a note too—it’s a day of notes—Call Me. S. Underneath, a young girl’s still-developing penmanship, and Cecelia.
It’s almost ten. I can find him at Green Mountain Community, but no. I’m too bruised to sit through a service, too bruised for anything but handling soft flour and cool water. I’ll plant my hands in dough, root them there, to keep from being pulled from this firm, kitchen world back into my head. I touch my mother’s trough, trace the repair line where my father glued it together, and when my finger reaches the end, it balances precariously on the lip of the wood, nowhere to go but back the way it came.
I can’t go back, though.
I’ve been orphaned by my bread.
Not only have I lost a mother and a father, but my heritage disappeared with the word adopted. I am no longer a Tochter von Brot, a caretaker of the Anfrishsauer. There is no blood binding me to Oma and her mother, and to all the others, one ancestor passing the craft of baking to her daughter a generation at a time, a loaf at a time. This love of bread I think I have been born into, I believe I must follow because I can do no other—it is simply something I have been taught, not something I am.
Who does that make me?
Taking off my father’s sweater, I scoop a measure of flour from the bin, hold the cup high over my head, and let it fall into the trough. I do it again, again, dust particles whitening my arms, tickling my face. I sneeze into my shoulder. And then water, adding it the same way, from the sky; it splashes down, sloshing out of the bowl, cutting the mountain of flour. Erosion. Everything washes away, eventually.
I knead not only with my hands but my arms as well, coating myself with dough. It’s weak and pasty, not enough flour to bind it; I open the bin with my elbow and manage to get more, dripping white water on the floor while doing so. Now the dough is tough, but I continue to work it, pressing, rolling, squeezing until my breath comes like razor blades and I bury my face in my sweet-smelling hands and finally cry.
Barley-Wheat Sourdough
Makes 2 loaves
LIESL’S NOTES :
Experimenting with flours other than wheat is another adventure in bread making. Barley always reminds me of Jesus’ miracle of the loaves and fishes—the feeding of five thousand. Barley bread was the bread of the poor for much of its history, but many now respect the health benefits of this low-gluten, high-protein grain. Bread made with barley will have a different flavor than one made entirely of whole wheat, earthier and slightly sweet. This recipe combines both types of flour for a chewy crust and crumb.
INGREDIENTS :
100 grams (½ cup) 100% hydration sourdough starter (see page 45)
150 grams (⅔ cup) water
120 grams (1 cup) all-purpose flour, organic if possible
160 grams (1⅓ cups) whole barley flour, organic if possible
520 grams (4⅓ cups) whole wheat flour, organic if possible
360 grams (1½ cups) water
113 grams (⅓ cup) honey, raw if possible
12 grams (2 teaspoons) salt
EQUIPMENT :
kitchen scale (optional but recommended)
2 ceramic or glass mixing bowls
wooden spoon
plastic wrap or clean kitchen towel
stand mixer with dough hook (optional)
olive oil
2 proofing baskets (also known as a brotform or banneton), optional
parchment paper
baking stone
broiler pan
serrated knife or razor
DO AHEAD
Combine the first three ingredients (sourdough starter, water, and all-purpose flour) in a bowl and mix well. Cover with plastic wrap and allow to rest for 12 hours or overnight.
ON BAKING DAY
In a large bowl, combine the starter with the remaining ingredients, mix until everything is incorporated, and allow to rest for 30 minutes. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead, by hand, for 5 to 8 minutes. If using a stand mixer, combine all ingredients and stir with a wooden spoon until a dough forms. Allow to rest for 30 minutes, and then mix for 5 minutes on medium-low speed with a dough hook.
Lightly oil a bowl and place the dough in it, covering with plastic wrap or a clean, damp kitchen towel. Allow to rise for 1 hour, then gently turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and “stretch and fold” three times. Return the dough to the bowl, cover, and let ferment another 1½ to 2 hours.
Again, remove the dough from the bowl and divide in half. Shape the dough into loaves (boules or bâtards work well), place on parchment paper, and cover with a damp towel or lightly oiled plastic wrap. (If using proofing baskets, allow the dough to rest for 15 minutes before transferring it into them.) Allow to proof for 2 to 3 hours, until the dough, when gently pressed with two fingers, returns slowly to its original shape.
Preheat the oven to 475 degrees Fahrenheit with the baking stone on the middle shelf and empty broiler pan on the bottom shelf. Score the loaves (either once down the center for a bâtard, or three times across the top for a boule) and move them, on the parchment paper, onto the baking stone. (If using proofing baskets, either turn the dough out onto parchment paper, score, and place on the baking stone, or turn the dough out directly onto the baking stone and score there.) Add 1 cup of water to the broiler pan and close the oven. Bake for 15 minutes with steam, then remove the broiler pan and bake for another 20 to 25 minutes. Check the loaves during baking to make sure they do not overbrown; if the crust browns too quickly, cover loosely with aluminum foil to prevent continued darkening.
Remove from oven and allow to cool on a wire rack. Wait 2 hours before slicing.
I shower and stand naked, hair wrapped in a towel, before my open closet door. I don’t know what to wear. Nothing feels right—old clothes, new clothes, clothes for the person I thought I was, for who I am now, for who I wish I can be. I’ve made it too complicated. Finally, when I’m shivering, I grab something for all those parts. One of my new skirts, a long-sleeved T-shirt with screen-printed dandelions that doesn’t quite match, and because I hear thunder, a pai
r of brightly patterned rain boots, gifted to me by a customer because I complimented hers. I tie back my hair in a stumpy ponytail and don’t bother with makeup. As I’m leaving through the kitchen, I grab the sweater I borrowed and shrug into it. I’m stitched together by these clothes, not quite a whole person despite having enough toes and fingers to make me seem so.
The rain comes as I drive to Seamus’s home. I’ve not been there before, but I know the road and figure the mailbox will be marked. I switch the wipers from delay to high and peer at each house I pass. There are no names on any of the mailboxes. I turn around in someone’s driveway and try again, finally peering through the trees into the yard of a small house with two bicycles leaning against the shed—a small pink two-wheeler with faded plastic streamers in one handle and a larger men’s mountain bike. I pull toward the house and see the glider swing Cecelia told me about, the one she likes to rock on while she colors. A Hello Kitty pillow sits on the canvas seat cushion, leaning against one arm of the rusted frame.
They’re still at church. I wait in the car, windows steaming, shifting so my back leans against the door and my legs drape across the passenger’s seat. I’m cold, though; tucking my legs to my chest and wrapping them with the sweater only works so long until my feet begin to tingle. I won’t run the car while it sits idle, ever.
I decide Seamus isn’t a person who locks his doors, and this isn’t the type of house that needs locking, so I run up the cracked cement stoop and twist the knob. The door opens. I slip inside the house, into a kitchen–living room combination, generic brown carpet denoting one side, plain beige tile marking the other. Miniature dog and cat figurines swim over the rug with their hairbrushes and beds and tiny sneakers. Books and papers and clean laundry cover the one kitchen counter. This morning’s breakfast keeps watch from the table: a yellow box of Cheerios, a milky bowl and spoon, the crusts of some supermarket bread toast, a glass with a pulpy puddle of orange juice at the bottom, and an empty coffee mug.
I’m freezing. I check the thermostat only to find the heat off, but I’m not so brazen to turn it up. Instead, I leave my wet boots at the door and tiptoe through all the plastic puppy shrapnel to the couch. I shake open the fuzzy brown blanket crumpled on one end and fold it around me. Then I lie down, crooking my elbow beneath my head.
I’m awakened by puffs of warm breath in my face and open my eyes to find Cecelia’s nose inches from my own. “Daddy wanted me to see if you were up yet.”
“I’m up,” I say, and sit, aware the blanket has come apart and one side of my skirt is twisted over my hip. I cover again, but Cecelia doesn’t notice. She plops next to me, offering me one of her kittens.
“This is Zoë,” she says. The cat is yellowish with purple-tipped ears and a disproportionately large bobbling head. “She’s my favorite. But I only tell her that, not the others.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m still waking, having slept hard enough to drool all over my arm and congest my nose. My hair flops around my face. I search the cushions, find my elastic, and redo my ponytail. When I smooth my hands over my head, though, I feel all the lumps and puckers of unruly hair. So I shake the rubber band loose and tuck it behind my ears.
“I didn’t make you get up, right?” The little girl closes her fist around her kitten and tucks it beneath her chin. “Daddy said not to, just to check. I didn’t make noise or touch you or anything. I was just looking.”
“No, you didn’t make me get up. Don’t worry.”
“Tell Daddy, okay?”
“Tell Daddy what?” Seamus asks, looking even more a giant in this cramped house.
“Cecelia didn’t wake me.”
“I didn’t, promise.” She traces an X over her chest and then kisses the tip of her finger. “She got up all by herself.”
“Okay, now. Why don’t you go into my bedroom and turn on the movie?”
“We’re supposed to watch it together.”
“I’ll be in soon. Now go.”
“Can Liesl come?”
Seamus narrows his eyes and silently mouths, Go. Cecelia scrunches her lips to one side and swats her nose, but does make her way down the hallway, albeit with slow steps and neglected sighs.
I twist the blanket tighter around me.
“So,” Seamus says. “Breaking and entering. Not all that smart, for a celebrity.”
“There was no breaking,” I say.
“Cold?”
“I’m fine.”
He shakes his head and adjusts the thermostat. “I try not to turn it back on until November first.”
“It was warmer before the rain.”
“Want some coffee or something?”
I shake my head now. “What time is it?”
“A bit past two. You were out.”
“Yeah,” I say, voice airy with sarcasm. “I didn’t sleep so great last night.”
“We waited for you, at the bakery, I mean. After church. We went to see if you were there.” He sits on the sofa, on the opposite end. As far from me as possible, really.
“How was church?”
“Good. How are you?” I open my mouth and he looks into me and says, “Don’t say good.”
“I don’t know what to say, then.”
“Anything but that.”
“I’m adopted.”
Seamus blinks. “Okay.”
“No, I’m—I just found out last night.”
“Oh,” he says, the word sounding the same way I feel, dull and ill at ease. “How did you . . . I mean, was it that phone call?”
“Yeah.”
He waits, expecting more of the story to be forthcoming, but telling it seems such work, as if there are dozens of marbles in my mouth I need to speak around, or my jaw is dislocated, and I need to manipulate each word with my hand too, opening and closing my mouth, marionette-style. Exhausting. But I did come into his home and sleep in his bed, the Goldilocks of family dysfunction, so I owe him at least a nibble more.
“I told you my mother was mentally ill. She and my father wanted a child but she didn’t want to chance passing on her . . . problems. So they adopted. Me.”
“They never told you.”
“My father said they planned to. Then my mother died and everything pretty much fell apart. But the TV show. They saw me. My biological family.” I wipe my palms over my face, from my oily nose to my ears. I almost pinch a chunk of cheek and stretch it, like my father did last night. Stop myself. It’s too much to be like him right now. My hands still smell of flour; it’s there, dried in my cuticles. I pick at them.
Biological. The word means nothing to me outside the freshman science lab I’d been required to take, at least before yesterday. Now it’s five syllables capable of altering a life. More than one.
Seamus extends his long arm—he reaches me without leaning—and touches an unseen part of me at the bottom of the blanket. My ankle. “What can I do?”
“Take me back in time. Keep me from going on that stupid show.”
“You’d rather not know the truth?”
“What has it done?”
“It’s given you the truth. That should be enough.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Too late.”
I’m annoyed. Who is Seamus in my life that he thinks he can speak to me this way? “Do me a favor and don’t comment, please. You’re not helping.”
He takes his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just . . . well, I guess I just think it’s a good thing. If it were me, I’d want to know. Like about where I came from, and those things.”
But Seamus is a wanderer, never staying too long in one place. To him, this is romantic and exciting, a chance for me to explore the newly discovered topography of Liesl. I don’t want it, though. I am the child who felt safe nestled between my parents, watching The Cosby Show and eating popcorn made on the stove in my mother’s blue enamelware pot. My father ate his popcorn with cinnamon and sugar. So did I. My mother wore two pairs of socks because her feet were cold.
So did I. I liked being part of them, believing God plucked this piece from him and that one from her, and stirred them together to make me. I liked coming from somewhere utterly recognizable.
I like blending.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You’ve gained, Liesl. More knowledge. More family. I guess, though . . . I mean, how much you take of it is up to you.”
“I’ve lost—”
—the bread.
I stop. Seamus doesn’t need me to finish. He touches me again, a little higher up my leg, but still far enough away from my heart to be safe. “It’s not gone.”
“But it’s not me anymore.”
“It’s more you than anything else. Your mother, she nurtured that bread down deep into you, deeper even than if it had been planted there by blood.”
The bedroom door opens. Cecelia shouts down the hallway, “Can I at least come out to get a Capri Sun?”
“You can come all the way out,” Seamus says.
She skips into the kitchen and yanks open the refrigerator. Bottles jingle in the door. “I’m sorta hungry too.”
Seamus meets her at the fridge and peers inside. “Want a sandwich?”
“Nah.”
“Apple?”
She shakes her head.
“Cheese stick?”
“Don’t we have anything good?”
“Hey, Miss Gratitude. Shopping day’s tomorrow.”
She crinkles her nose. “Is there any popcorn?”
He spins the revolving corner cabinet, holds up two cellophane-wrapped rectangles. “Ta-da.”
“Can you come watch the movie with me now? And Liesl too?”
“Tell you what. You grab the disc and bring it down to the living room. I’ll make the popcorn. And we’ll ask Liesl if she wants to join us. How about that?”
“Liesl, will you? We can start the movie over, I don’t mind watching the beginning part again.”
“Okay,” I tell her. I’m cold and tired and it’s still raining, and I don’t want to be alone right now.
She squeals and runs for the movie. Seamus opens the popcorn bags and starts the microwave. I try to readjust my skirt beneath the blanket. Cecelia returns, lugging her princess sleeping bag and pillow-shaped plush unicorn. “Pick up those Pet Shops too,” her father says. She dumps her armful on the recliner and crouches, using her arms to bulldoze the figurines into one pile. Then she scoops them into the sparkly pink pail beside the television.
Stones for Bread Page 23
