Stones for Bread

by Parrish, Christa

  Seamus glances over. “Where do they go?”

  “I’m going.” She huffs a little, dragging the bucket to her bedroom and racing back. Seamus empties the steaming popcorn into three bowls. Cecelia digs the movie disc from inside her sleeping bag and drops it into the player. Turns on the television. “I can’t find the remote.”

  “Check the cushions.”

  It’s there, in the crack beside me. She begins the movie and pauses it, tosses the remote back onto the couch before shimmying into her sleeping bag and hopping, like in a sack race, to settle next to me. “Do you like dolphins?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Good, ’cause this movie’s about one.”

  Seamus comes with popcorn and sits on Cecelia’s other side. “Press play.”

  She pats around. “The remote’s gone again.”

  “Under you,” I tell her, and she struggles around in her polyester cocoon until she finds it. Then she nestles between us, yellow crumbs escaping from her mouth as she smiles at the movie and chews, legs thrown over her father’s, head on my shoulder.

  “Do you want her to move?” Seamus asks.

  I shake my head and realize, oh, how easy blending comes.

  Eighteen

  We survive, my father and I, rebuilding the bonds I tore down. He has his church and I go with him when asked, which is only three or four times each year. I stop beating my legs, mostly, and when the more intense urges come I phone Sara Kempf, and we talk about nothing until they pass. She would be more of a friend, I think, if I wanted her to be, but I avoid her in school because I don’t deserve her, and anyway, the world turning around her—the other cheerleaders, the youth group, her quarterback boyfriend—want nothing to do with me. My grades improve, and by my senior year, with excellent standardized test scores and letters from the guidance counselor explaining the extenuating circumstances of my first two years of high school, I manage to be accepted into one of the best computer science programs in the state. My father wants to know what I’m studying, exactly.

  Coding languages. Graphics. Computational theory.

  But why?

  Because it’s the furthest thing from bread I can imagine. I don’t say that, but tell him instead, It sounds interesting.

  We pack my car. He asks again if he can drive out with me. I say no, and he lets it be.

  I worry about leaving him.

  He tells me, Go, go, placing his hand atop my head and gently pulling me toward him. He kisses me between my temple and ear.

  Only two hours away. I’ll be home to do laundry.

  I drive, relying on my door mirrors because the backseat is stacked high with boxes and totes and blankets, and I can’t see out the windshield rearview. I merge onto the highway northbound. Two exits later I swing over to the right lane, take the off-ramp, and swing back around to go south again.

  I decide I can’t leave without it.

  Parking at the curb, I leave the car running so I have an excuse not to stay. I love the Rausenberg house, so much like my own, built not long before the turn of the century and charming in its details, from slate roof to eight-inch baseboard moldings, to the quirky under-the-stairs passageway leading into the bathroom. I ring the doorbell and Jennie answers; we’ve long been estranged, our talents and circumstances leading us in different directions. Not hostile toward one another. Simply untied.

  Hey, she says.

  Hey back. Is your mom here?

  She holds the screen door open. It’s green, like the wide plank floorboards of the front porch, extra glossy, paint flaking beneath the handle. In the kitchen.

  Mrs. Rausenberg hugs me when I enter, knowing better than to say she’s not seen me around for a while or that she’s missed me around here, and asks instead for me to sit with her and have a glass of lemonade. Fresh squeezed, the way you like it.

  I can’t stay. My car is running out there. I’m leaving for Clarkson.

  She presses her lips together in a bittersweet smile. I read that. In the paper. And then, sweeping my untrimmed bangs from my eyes, says, You made it.

  Yeah. I guess I did. I tug the hem of my shirt; it’s shorter than I normally wear and I’m self-conscious about it. Do you think . . . I mean, do you still have—

  Yes.

  The kitchen is remarkably modern compared to the rest of the house, with stainless steel appliances and bright aqua and lemon pans hanging from the rack in the center of the ceiling. She opens the refrigerator, so much larger than the one we have, cleaner, without clots of dried sweet-and-sour sauce on the shelves or shriveled carrots in the crisper. She reaches deep inside, nearly disappearing, and emerges holding a Mason jar and Oma’s stoneware crock. With her knee she shuts the door. They were fed three days ago. They’re always hungry, still.

  Thank you. For keeping them all this time, I mean.

  Thank you for asking me.

  I don’t need them both. There’s no difference between them, especially now as they’ve been given the same flour for years. I take only the crock from her and say, You keep that one.

  She embraces me again, more firmly, the cold crock between us, against the bare skin of my belly where my T-shirt rides up because I’ve thrown my arm around her neck. She whispers, Be good, you hear?

  I nod my head against hers.

  Back in the car, I belt my crock of starter into the passenger seat and tuck a pillow around it to keep it safe.

  Two days after the movie with Seamus and Cecelia, my father calls. I consider ignoring his message but don’t want to make him more concerned than he already is. I, however, am not ready to talk. There’s nothing new to add to the adoption conversation, and I have other things on my mind as well.

  One other thing.

  The cooking show.

  I’d been leaning toward accepting, especially after Xavier gave his approval. I read through every word of the information the Good Food Network sent, logistics and contract and legalese. The first season of Bread Without Boundaries would feature twenty-four episodes, and I’d be paid five thousand dollars each—four times the salary I take at the bakehouse. Add to that airfare (first class), hotels (only the best I imagine, if Jonathan Scott accompanies me, or at least very good ones), food (whatever I want to eat), and the experience of the best breads from around the world (to quote the credit card commercial, priceless). Only a fool would refuse.

  But something happened the other day, when I went to Seamus and shared with him about the adoption. When Cecelia snuggled between us. I caught a glimpse of another possible future, one I never expected I might want. No. In those deep recesses where I tuck the memory of family, the way life was before my mother’s death, I always have wanted it. I have been afraid to lose it again.

  I’m caught off balance, though I shouldn’t be. Seamus and I have been flirting around the edges of this for weeks, him subtly pursuing but interested in more, me undulating in bewildered attempts to understand my rather erratic—and unpracticed—emotions. He’s been more patient than I deserve. I’ve been, well, a bit of a handful. As improbable as it seems, when I stack Seamus—a divorced, blue-collar single father packaged with a precocious little girl—beside all the Good Food Network offers me, I’d rather have him.

  What do I do?

  Ask me.

  I haven’t prayed over the decision. Will seeking the Spirit ever be my first inclination? After three years, I think I’d be better at this Christian thing. Others come to faith and within hours have boarded a ship to deepest Africa with only two dollars and a granola bar in their satchel, trusting the Lord to care for their every need. I don’t remember to thank him before a meal.

  No condemnation. Ask me.

  I close my eyes and see Cecelia sucking her pigtail to a wet point, and then she grins, her father coming from behind to cocoon her in his stout arms.

  Jonathan Scott’s card is in the mess of pages on the kitchen table. I sift through and, before I change my mind, dial his number. He answers, and I tell him who’s
calling.

  “Liesl, I was wondering about you.”

  “I’m not going to do the show. I appreciate your generous offer, but—”

  “—it’s not for you.”

  “In some ways it’s too much for me, I think.”

  “You know I understand.” He says this in his other voice, not the showman one he uses while the cameras roll, but the tired, generous one with which he told me about the old boulanger who let Jonathan wash his floors to earn admittance into his world of bread and war.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Any chance you’ll change your mind?”

  “Slim to none.”

  “How slim?”

  “Okay, none to less than that.”

  He laughs. “I hear you. But listen. Keep my card. If you ever need anything you think I can help with, please call. Seriously. I mean it.”

  “I will.”

  I gather the show documents into their envelope and, before dumping them into the trash can, hesitate. Do I want to save them so one day, perhaps five years from now, when I realize my life is exactly the same as this instant, I can look back and think, I was offered more and I chose this? I shake my head despite being alone in the kitchen. To choose means owning the decision. I cram the envelope down the side of the bag and shut the lid. I do keep Jonathan Scott’s card, taping it into the cover of my mother’s Beard on Bread so I won’t lose it.

  Wild White Sandwich Bread

  Makes two loaves

  LIESL’S NOTES :

  This wild yeast loaf is soft and airy without the use of commercial yeast. The taste is mild with only a hint of sourness. Translation: even the kids will love it. Because butter and milk powder are added, this bread would be considered enriched, which is why the crumb is so tender.

  The windowpane test is used by bakers to gauge gluten development. Take some dough from the larger mass, approximately golf-ball sized or a little smaller. Stretch the dough. If it doesn’t tear but the windowpane (thin dough membrane) is mostly opaque, there is only a low level of gluten development. If the dough stretches to a thin, translucent windowpane, the gluten is highly developed. This recipe calls for the gluten to be developed somewhere between these two extremes; the membrane will be opaque in places and translucent in others, but the recipe works best when there are more translucent areas than not.

  Please remember, the “standard kitchen measurements” are close approximations. For best results, use a kitchen scale.

  INGREDIENTS :

  700 grams (5¾ cups) unbleached white flour, organic if possible

  355 grams (1½ cups) water

  18 grams (1 tablespoon) finely ground sea salt

  65 grams (4½ tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature

  42 grams (2 tablespoons) honey

  23 grams (⅓ cup) instant non-fat dry milk

  400 grams (2 cups) 100% hydration sourdough starter (see page 45)

  EQUIPMENT :

  kitchen scale (optional but recommended)

  stand mixer with dough hook

  wooden spoon

  olive oil

  plastic wrap

  butter (for greasing pans)

  two 8½ x 4½-inch bread pans

  baking stone

  broiler pan

  DO AHEAD

  Make sure the starter has been fed and is ready to use for baking.

  ON BAKING DAY

  Combine all the ingredients in the bowl of the stand mixer. Using the dough hook, mix on low speed until the dough forms a ball of medium dough consistency—a little more water or flour may be needed. Increase speed to medium and mix for approximately 8 minutes, until the gluten has developed sufficiently, as described in the notes above.

  Lightly coat a large glass or ceramic mixing bowl with olive oil and move the dough into this bowl. Cover with plastic wrap or a clean kitchen towel. After 1 hour, turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and “stretch and fold” four times. Return it to the bowl and cover for another hour, and then “stretch and fold” a second time. Again, return to the bowl and allow to rest for 1 more hour (this is a total of 3 hours of fermentation time). Gently divide the dough in half and shape each into a log. Allow the dough to rest on a floured surface, covered, for 30 minutes.

  Generously grease the loaf pans and, after reshaping the dough to fit, place it into the pans seam side down. Cover and let the dough proof for approximately 3 hours, or until the dough has risen at least ½ inch above the pan.

  Preheat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit with an empty broiler pan on the bottom rack. Place the loaves in the oven and add 1 cup of water to the broiler pan. Close the oven door quickly and reduce heat to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Bake for 45 minutes, checking at 20 minutes to see if the loaves are browning too quickly; if so, cover loosely with aluminum foil. (If you don’t tent the tops with foil at 20 minutes, you’ll want to continue to check every five minutes to make sure the loaves aren’t getting too brown. To simplify this process, you can cover the loaves with foil at 20 minutes even if they’re not dark enough for your liking, and then remove the foil the last 5 minutes of baking to brown them more.)

  Remove the loaves from the oven and carefully take them out of their pans. Cool for at least 1 hour before slicing; allowing to cool to room temperature works best if the bread will be sliced thin for sandwiches.

  I leave the bakehouse around noon, telling Gretchen I have errands, and go see Seamus. I can wait for the next morning, at church, but don’t want to try to find a way to get him alone and have a serious conversation. The words rattle around my head, each imaginary conversation I have with him longer and more heartfelt than the previous, and I’m afraid, given too much passing time, these words will decompose and be reabsorbed into myself, and I’ll have nothing left to say at all.

  I bring bread, white loaf bread, because I know he likes it best, a new formula I’ve decided has been perfected, made with sourdough but also ideal for sandwiches. When I knock on the door of his house and he answers, I hold the two paper sacks out to him and say, “I’ve come bearing gifts.”

  “It’s Saturday,” he says. I think he’s been napping, his hair matted flat on one side of his head, the top slightly greasy and standing on end.

  “Playing hooky,” I say. “Someone I know told me it would be good for me.”

  He briskly buffs his face in his hands, fights a yawn. “Oh.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, sure. Sorry.” He moves out of the way.

  “Thanks.” I set the bread on the table. “Is Cecelia here?”

  “At a friend’s. Which is why I was catching up on a little rest.”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. I can go—”

  “No,” he says. “I’m up. Really.”

  This is not how I pictured things going, him half-asleep in baggy sweatpants, his stomach speaking in short, audible growls, me foolishly waiting on his porch, grinning with all the enthusiasm of a Crest Whitestrips commercial. Seamus turns on the tap and drinks a glass of water. “Are you hungry? I can make us lunch.”

  I dangle one of the bread bags in front of him. “Sandwiches?”

  “I’m always up for one.”

  He unloads his icebox, all the cold cuts, spreads, condiments, and anything he deems sandwich worthy—a chunk of London broil, egg salad, cold French fries—lined up on the kitchen table. “Thick or thin?” he asks, a steak knife positioned over the bread.

  “Thin,” I say, and he cuts two slices for me. I dress mine with turkey breast and provolone, lettuce, tomato, and Dijon mustard, while he hacks off a two-inch-thick piece of his own, smears it with cream cheese, and then tops it with coleslaw.

  My poor bread.

  We make small talk. Our interactions feel clunky today, strained even, as if we’re both trying too hard to be casual. I can’t read him, and I see none of what I’m looking for—that is, interest from him, in me—to give me that last push into saying what I came to tell him. I’ll do it
anyway.

  I’m terrified.

  “So, I have news,” I begin, and Seamus pauses, mid-bite, and returns his sandwich to his plate. “About the show. I’m not going to do it.”

  His entire face wrinkles. “What?”

  “I’ve turned it down.”

  “Why?”

  It’s not the response I expect. Crowing, quacking, shouting, “Yaba daba do” as loud as possible—those are Seamus reactions. Defensiveness prickles in my armpits, at my hairline. “I have reasons. I don’t want to abandon the bakehouse, for one. I know the network says I’d only be away twelve weeks maximum for filming, but there’s some clauses about special appearances and other obligations, and I don’t want to be roped into something I don’t want to do.”

  “Oh.”

  I turn my head, unable to look at him as the next words leave my mouth. “And there’s you and Cecelia to consider.” Seamus doesn’t answer. I wait, every skin follicle responding to the embarrassed silence, tightening with anxiety and perspiration. “Well then. I guess I’ll be going now—”

  “Liesl.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t say something like that with your back toward me.”

  I don’t move. He stands and rotates my chair. My feet tangle in the legs, ankles kinking, one heel twisting out of my shoe. Sitting again, he leans in close enough for me to see his eyes aren’t completely gray but centrally heterochromic; a ring of amber glows around his iris. And he grins so brightly, so contagiously, that I smile as well. “Tell me again.”

  “I don’t want to leave you. Or Cecelia.”

  He catches my face between his hands and, rising slightly, kisses me at the intersection of my nose and forehead, where I pluck my eyebrows to keep them from meeting. “I love you,” he says.