Amish Friendship Bread:  Setting the Pace

Journeys vary in pace.  There is the stroll of the wanderer and the speed of the sprinter, and all that lies in between.  In our modern world, the fastest are admired most:  the wünderkind entrepreneur, the young pop idol, the high school athlete who goes straight to the pros.  We are encouraged to talk faster, walk faster, and to multitask.  The idea of slowing down, for most, is nothing more than an unrequited longing, something to do after retirement.

            The sweetness of time, however, can be savored with a simple staple of our diet:  bread.  Oh, yes, there are bread machines.  Bread can be bought on the fly, cell phone in hand, toddler on hip, in the supermarket.  The bread journey we are about to undertake, though, is one of strolling and stopping, of preparation and reflective rest, of intimacy.  Slowing down, we catch our breath, and as we do so, a curious thing happens:  our spirits take flight. 

This is a journey of all the senses.  The sight of a loaf of bread shaped with care and browned to perfection.  The muted sound of wooden spoon meeting wooden bowl.  The feel of dough in the hands as the dough smooths and softens, and the honest work of the arms that build strength and muscle as they knead it.  The smell of rising yeast that pervades a home, bringing cozy warmth to its occupants.  The warm, sometimes sweet taste of the loaf fresh from the oven.  Finally, there is that sense often discounted and seldom trusted, the sense of oneness and mystery that goes beyond any words that can be expressed.

Hearing the voice of bread demands the experience of all the senses; this is done by slowing them, as in any meditative experience.  Amish Friendship Bread, in particular, requires a high level of patience, for it takes ten days to make.  On six of those days, the instruction is simply “do nothing” (Harbison 44).  For two of the days, we stir the bread with a wooden spoon.  During that time the bread starter takes its yeast from the invisible air rather than the sealed packages in the grocery store. 

            Slowing down isn’t easy.  Embarking on the task, I feel strangely nervous, knowing what happens when life slows down:  I think.  I feel.  I am confronted with myself, and that confrontation is sometimes painful.  Perhaps that is why going faster is so revered.

            Still, as the days pass I become comfortable with the rhythm that is being created inside.  It is primal, ancient, and wonderful.  It doesn’t concern itself with whether it is politically correct or liberated.  It doesn’t demand results.  Here, there are no cholesterol counts or climbing the ladder of success.  There are no painful relationships; in fact, any heaviness of heart disappears in the joy of creation.  There is only the dough, rising slowly in its time to a meandering perfection.

This Amish Friendship bread is offered now as a way to set the pace for the pages that follow.  These pages will slowly connect the dots of history, culture, and symbology of a food that has existed in multiple forms for centuries, evolving to serve different societies according to the grains and processes available.  As with Friendship Bread, this journey is shared; for breaking bread is what builds friendships, and bread is always tastier when it is not eaten alone.

Amish Friendship Bread:  The Recipe

Starter:

Combine a cup of flour, a cup of sugar, and a cup of milk.  Let it sit overnight, then begin the 10-day count.  On days 1 and 2, do nothing.  On day 3, stir with a wooden spoon.  Days 4 and 5, do nothing.  Day 6, add one cup milk, one cup sugar, and one cup flour, and stir.  Day 7, do nothing.  Day 8, stir with a wooden spoon.  Day 9, do nothing.  Day 10, add one cup milk, one cup sugar, and one cup flour.  Give away two cups of this mixture, keep one for your next batch, and use the fourth cup to make the bread.

Baking the Bread:

Combine one cup of vegetable oil, ½ cup milk, 3 eggs, one teaspoon vanilla extract, and one cup of starter.  Mix well.

Add two cups of flour, one cup of sugar,  1 ½ teaspoons baking powder, ½ teaspoon baking soda, 2 teaspoons cinnamon, salt, one large box of vanilla pudding, and one cup of shelled nuts (if desired).  Stir well.

Heat oven to 325° and grease two loaf pans.  Sprinkle ½ cup mixture of cinnamon and sugar into each pan, then distribute the batter into the pans.  Top with additional cinnamon and sugar.  Bake for one hour or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

 (Harbison 44-45)

 Part One:  Mixing Ingredients

            There is nothing particularly magical about the ingredients in a loaf of bread.  They generally include flour of some variety, yeast, eggs, salt, and milk.  Yet some breads are tasty and light, while others are flat and boring.  The finished product comes in a variety of shapes and sizes and flavors; there are infinite combinations to enjoy.

Mixing the ingredients for us, in our modern world, is the beginning of making a loaf of bread.  However, we often forget that the fragrant loaf at our table begins with the grains.  As we mix the ingredients of this exploration of bread, then, let us take a moment to ponder the farmers who begin the process for us…and the goddess who sends her blessing or curse to the earth for a fine crop.

            Homer once sang my song, calling me the “holy goddess with the beautiful hair (Nagy).”  The world should know, however, that a strong Olympian goddess has her own verses.  What did Homer know of my life before my daughter Persephone’s capture?  He says he is going to tell my story, but he becomes sidetracked and tells Persephone’s story instead, leaving me in the background.  To Homer, I am defined only as Persephone’s mother.  Perhaps, of course, it is typical that the tragedy of a fair maiden is more interesting than that of an old woman.  Silly man!  This must be Athena’s doing, as she cast sweet sleep over his eyes, blinding him to the power of a goddess.

            Once upon a time the first breads produced from the new crops were sacrificed to me; no more.  As I was forgotten, so too was the knowledge I had to share of how to care for the earth to help the crops grow.  The world paid dearly when it forgot the “goddess of the corn, grain, and harvest (greekmythology.com).”  But then, Man has always believed himself to have dominion over the earth, just as Man has often held dominion over woman.  The land, however, is a fickle mistress, and I continue to make my presence known, even when they do not know it is my voice they hear.

             My seasons are those of the heart.  The spring is like my early days as a young girl, the daughter of Cronus and Rhea.  Do not believe the story that Cronus swallowed us, with only Zeus escaping that fate (thinkquest.org).  In my brother’s desire to become the god of heaven and earth, Zeus imagined himself the hero who saved us.  One could say he was also the god of public relations!

             But then, Zeus and I have a special history.  Not only was I his sister, but one of his many wives as well (Zimmerman 292-3), so I am more familiar than most with his tricks.  As my brother’s wife, I bore his beautiful daughter Persephone, of which many songs and tales are told. 

             The fall came when Persephone fell, or was taken, from me before she was ready to go; I brought the winter in my anguish.  For Zeus, with his cunning, gave her to Hades without my consent, I know he did, no matter what he says.  Zeus ignored her cries, and no one else dared defy him to protect her.  What does Zeus, or Homer for that matter, know of a mother’s love?  My child was so young and beautiful, that of course she would gain the admiration of a great god!  But I wanted to keep her with me a while longer, to shelter her from the world of gods that would treat her as a common human woman, and not the immortal that she is.

             My anger grew as I was told, as women often are, to calm down, to accept that my daughter was honored to be possessed by an important god.  I no longer cared to be an immortal, and I preferred to live in the world of men and women, away from Mt. Olympus, away from my home, away from my brothers and sisters, away from husbands and lovers. 

             Even in the world of men, though, I was not safe to appear as a maid, where I would be owned like a slave, so I took the guise of an old woman and called myself Doso (Lindemans). 

             I found work caring for the beautiful infant boy Demophon, whom I longed to guide and to teach the art of growing the grain.  I saw him, with his innocent spirit, as a future god who would balance the evils of Zeus and Hades, for whom I still bore ill will.  Each night, as I cared for him, I placed him in the fire to make him immortal (en.wkipedia.org).

             Alas, his mother, a foolish woman without faith, who could not behold a goddess in disguise, believed I was trying to harm the child.  Such is a woman who was trained to rely on the counsel of men instead of listening to the knowing in her own heart.  I then showed her my true goddess self, and from then on Demophon was cared for by lesser beings.

             Through all, I longed for my own child, and my love for Demophon never lessened the grief I felt for my Persephone.  Often at night I felt her presence, calling me in despair, filled with fear and sadness and grief.  I was haunted by her, shaken by my anger, an anger that is safe only with a woman who is strong and wise, who will not allow others to discount the intensity she has a right to feel. 

             I did not let the earth go to waste because I was angry with the mortals; truly, Homer did not tell the tale correctly.  In my pain and loss, I simply forgot to nourish the land, just as I often forgot even to brush my beautiful hair.  The hunger that came was my own hunger for my child that overwhelmed me and caused me to see nothing else.  The anger I felt was directed toward Olympus, that beautiful place that was once my home, that had turned its back on a mother in pain. 

             Too late, my brother began to understand the depth of what he had done to me.  Whether from love or guilt, he sent an order to Hades; Hades set her free, but not before one last trick.  By sharing the pomegranate with her, a single, simple food of Hades, she would be tied to him each winter forever  (greekmythology.com).  Still, to behold her once again brought joy to me beyond any other, for what opens a mother’s heart more than to see the bright eyes of her child?

             With her in my arms once again, I woke from my sad slumber and returned the crops to man in great abundance.  This is the end of Homer’s story, but it is not the end of mine.  For men and women often prayed to me for great crops, and when I felt the happiness of a mother I granted them their wish.

             Later, though, the great civilizations were conquered.  We watched as Greece fell, and then Rome, by whom I was called by another name, Ceres.  As the world was taken over by barbarism, my name was ignored in the prayers of the people.  The priests came and said it was wrong to say prayers to a woman.

             There are times when a god or goddess intervenes to wreak havoc in the lives of Man, but Man has the ability to create problems without us.  The land was owned by the wealthy, the man called the “hlaford,” or “the man who gives out the bread,” his wife the hlaefdigge, the “kneader of the dough” (Jacob 114).  Through time the names were shortened to lord and lady, and together they ruled many; sometimes kindly, but more often cruelly.  They replaced me with Mary, the mother of Jesus (120).  They forgot how to care for the crops and the fields, depleting the soil.  I brought them maize from the Americas, but they did not trust this grain for many years (Jacob 202).  How often has a god been blasphemed when the problem is of man?

             Eventually there were those who heard my whispers in their ears, but not before the race of Man was nearly destroyed.  Gradually, man learned again to care for the soil and to remember the lessons of the goddess, even as I was but a distant memory.

             I returned to Olympus, where I was welcomed back, and where Zeus asked my forgiveness—though that does not appear in any of the stories.  There I have taken my rightful place once again, with my beautiful daughter with me for all but the winter.  It is but a short time to weep, so I am grateful.  I still whisper guidance in the ears of those who till the soil; and if the crops are good, you can be sure I am pleased.

Bread for Demeter

Sour Cream Rye Bread (Wood 54)

Capture the Culture:

Mix two cups of bread flour and 1 ½ cups of warm water.  Stir vigorously, then expose the mixture, uncovered, to air.  Stir at least twice daily, and in two-three days bubbles should appear.  Add one cup flour and water, and stir again.  Repeat at 12-hour intervals until the mixture forms a later of foam one-two inches deep.  This should take four-five days.

The First Proof:

Place the culture in a bowl, add two cups of warm water, and mix.  Add three cups of flour, one cup at a time.  Cover and place in a warm area for about twelve hours.

The Recipe:

Put four cups of the first proof into a mixing bowl.  Add 2 teaspoons salt, 4 teaspoons sugar, 2 tablespoons oil, one cup of sour cream, and 2 tablespoons of caraway seeds.  Mix well.

Add four cups of rye flour and mix.  Add two cups of white flour and mix, then knead the dough on a floured board until dough is smooth.

Shape the dough into two ovals.  Let rise for 2-3 hours until double. 

Preheat oven to 375°.  Make crisscross slashes in tops of loaves, then bake for 55 minutes.

            Making challah and matzo in the same day provides an interesting study in contrasts, one that exemplifies the Jewish perspective on embracing all of life.  A single loaf of challah contains two packages of yeast and two eggs, which obviously encourages the dough to rise well.  The matzo, on the other hand, contains only flour and water, and it must be made quickly, before any leavening can occur.  My matzo took twelve minutes to mix, knead, and roll out, so the rabbis would be proud.  Matzo is, as Seligson describes, “the humblest of foods – flat and unpretentious, unadulterated, and unadorned (115).” 

            I began with the challah, because the first rising takes an hour, so I assumed correctly that I could whip up a batch of matzo during that time.  The challah mixture felt almost delicate in my hands, with the dough soft and springy.  Matzo dough, on the other hand, is coarse and firm, and the inclusion of wheat flour into the mixture gives it a stoutness.

            Never having tasted homemade matzo before, I wondered if it would be any more pleasant than the store-bought variety, which in flavor is no better than cardboard, and in texture conjures images of cement clogging the digestive system.  I was pleasantly surprised, for the flavor of the homemade version was almost sweet, although I suspect the cementing element still remains.

            Challah is the kind of bread that one can’t stop eating.  To eat it, gently pull a section from the loaf rather than cutting it.  The top of the loaf is browned, the inside firmer than a plain white bread, but still doughy and elastic.  The egg adds a rich flavor.   It is elegant, almost decadent in contrast to Matzo’s plainness. 

            The two breads represent two different aspects of Jewish life.  The challah is the celebration of the precious Sabbath, the abundance of rest.  Matzo is the hurried escape from the clutches of Pharoah, an homage to the Jews of old who risked everything for freedom.

Challah and Matzo:  A Meditation

            There is a saying in Judaism that we should carry a piece of paper in each of our pockets.  In one pocket, the paper reads, “I am but dust and ashes.”  In the other, the paper reads, “The whole world exists for my sake.”  The idea, of course, is to strike a balance between the two extremes, and to maintain strong self-esteem and humility, seemingly contradictory attributes, at the same time.

            This attitude is expressed also in these two Jewish breads.  Matzo is the ancient Nike ad, reminding us to “just do it,” just as the Israelites left Egypt without waiting for the perfect timing or circumstance.  Challah provides the balance, reminding us of the importance of rest.  It is the lush, poetic, abundant balance to the straightforward, ascetic matzo.  In the meditation that follows, we will begin to seek the gifts of both.

            Begin this meditation like the Challah, allowing the dough to rise in its own time.  Generously feed your spirit with the ingredients necessary for rising:  time unbroken by interruption and dedication to the task.  At the same time, be willing to be like the Egyptian Hebrews, and do not wait for the moment to be perfect.  If you have only a short time, then that is enough.  The important thing is to maintain an intention of challah, of the richness of the experience to come.

            Breathing fully and deeply is the easiest way to relax the body.  Spend a few minutes doing so, letting go of daily cares and stresses.  Whatever needs to be done can wait.

            To make challah, the bread is divided into three parts and braided.  These braids represent the rope that hanged Haman, an enemy of the Jews who sought their destruction, but whose plans were thwarted by Queen Esther (Harbison 26).  We all have our own Hamans inside of us, those aspects of ourselves that thwart our plans.  Usually our Haman is borne of fear and manifests in an excuse:  I can’t because I don’t have time, don’t have money, my boyfriend won’t let me, I’m too busy with my kids, etc.  Begin to reflect on what Haman has to say, without judgment or criticism.  As you become more and more still, begin to see Haman as someone who is, for better or worse, trying to protect you, and honor that desire for safety.  What is the real fear beneath Haman’s bluster?   Breath and consider that fear:  is it time to let it go?  Maybe yes, maybe no.  If the answer is yes, then proceed.

            Next, invite Esther to help.    Esther took a risk to save her people.  Notice the ways, however small, you have demonstrated qualities of courage in your life.  As you continue to meditate, imagine the strength of Esther growing within you, releasing the power of Haman.   With Esther, you no longer fear failure or embarrassment, for the real success is in taking the risk, regardless of the outcome. 

With courage and the willingness to transcend fear, life becomes like the rich texture of challah, with each bite bringing beauty and joy.  It would be easy to linger here for a while, so take as much time as you desire.  To complete the meditation, however, we will invoke the power and symbolism of the matzo.

Matzo represents right action.  Begin to consider an action, no matter how small, that you could take to express your new-found courage.  For someone desiring to return to school, that may mean enrolling in a single course, or even the smaller action of requesting a college catalog.  A desire to lose weight may begin with a walk around the block.  The message of the matzo is, what can I do right now to begin to have my dreams come true?

When you feel complete with this exercise, begin to come back to the present moment.  Is there a sense of greater wholeness and inner confidence?  You may even feel physically stronger, as though you have integrated something that had been fragmented.  Open your eyes, and rejoin your world.  Repeat whenever you are feeling like a victim.

Challah and Matzo:  The Recipes

Challah:          (Caldirola et. al 98 and Harbison 25)

Sift two cups flour in a bowl.  Add 6 2/3 teaspoons dry yeast, 1 ¾ teaspoon salt, and 10 Tablespoons sugar.  Mix well.

Make a well in the center, then add 1 cup plus 5 2/3 oz. Warm water, and beat with a whisk.  Add four lightly beaten eggs and 8 2/3 Tablespoons cooled, melted butter.  Add the remaining 5 ¾ cups flour and continue to beat as long as possible.

Knead the dough, adding flour if necessary to keep the dough from sticking.  Grease with oil and let rise for one hour.

Punch down the dough, divide into two equal parts (one for each loaf).  Separate each part into three sections, and turn each section into a long roll.  Braid the three long rolls together.  Cover and let rise for 40 minutes.  Lightly beat an egg with a little milk and brush the top of the loaves.  Bake for 40 minutes at 355º. 

Matzo:            (Seligson 127)

Mix two cups regular flour and one cup wheat flour with spring water until dough is soft.  Knead for five minutes and let rest for three. 

Roll dough into thin oval slabs, and prick each one with a fork.

Place on baking sheets lined with parchment paper and bake at 450º until crisp (about three minutes).

            Once the bread has risen the first time, the dough is smashed with a fist.  Besides being therapeutic, punching down the dough serves two purposes:  it redistributes the yeast and removes carbon dioxide from the dough (onecook.com).  In order for the bread to rise and bake properly, then, it must be beaten down.

            Life throws all of us curve balls, those experiences we’d rather not face.  If we are like a loaf of bread, though, we need those difficulties, those times of being beaten or punched down, in order to remove the “air bubbles” of taking life for granted and not living to the fullest.

            In the following section, our guests are individuals who are known for rising after being punched down.  Together, they will reflect on the images and symbology of bread in religion.

Bread in Religion:  A Conversation

    Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, and Itzpzpalotl met one day at Three Brothers’ Bakery for coffee and sweet rolls fresh from the oven.  The scent of yeast and cinnamon and drizzled frosting was unfamiliar to all of them, and they nibbled in wondrous bliss.  The flavor, sweet and miraculous, inspired them to a reflective conversation.

            Moses:  I think we could all agree that the yield of food from the land was deeply intertwined with worship.  A good harvest would mean that God was looking favorably upon us and our behavior.  Of course, for us bread, especially the matzo, is sacred because it symbolizes our freedom and exodus from Egypt.

            Mohammed:  The manna didn’t hurt, either.  What was that stuff, anyway?

            Moses:  Yes, the manna allowed us to survive when everyone was terrified of starving to death.  We made it into little cakes, and it was much like bread with a flavor of honey (Knight).  I’m not totally sure what it was, to be honest with you, but it was, indeed, breadlike.

            Jesus:  There was, unfortunately, no manna in our time.  The world into which I was born was deeply corrupted by grain speculators.  Those who supported the emperor were fed, and those who didn’t were given no grain (Jacob 89).  This is, to some degree, why I replaced Demeter as the “bread god.”  Where is Demeter, anyway?

            Itzpzpalotl:  Oh, you know how she is.  After the fiasco with the Mount Olympus gods, she still doesn’t want much to do with gods or icons.  That woman can really hold a grudge.

            Mohammed:  It’s just as well.  Who are you anyway, and how is it that a woman was invited here?

            Itzpzpalotl (casting a venomous look at Mohammed):  I am the Aztec goddess of agriculture.  Our people had many such gods, and I represent famine and death when I am displeased.  (homestead.com)

            Moses:  I think what she’s saying, Mohammed, is not to mess with her!

            Itzpzpalotl (rolling her eyes):  Sometimes I appear like a vulture, others like an obsidian butterly (homestead.com).  And while mine is a destructive power, our people worshipped and made sacrifices to me to great honor.  As you may know, the Spanish conquerors found no famine among us (Jacob 195), even though their own people were starving to death.  Yet they called us barbarians.  By the way, you can call me Itzy for short.  It seems to be easier for those who do not speak our language.

            Moses:  Perhaps, Itzy, it was your people’s methods of pleasing their gods that seemed barbaric.  My people eliminated human sacrifice with the patriarch Abraham, yet thousands of years later, your people were still making a bloody mess of things.

            Itzy:  We all have methods that others do not understand.  Our people ate bread of corn meal and human blood (197).  In such a way, they were eating the body of God.  What is so different about, say, the eucharist?

            Jesus:  This is bread that is transformed; it is not made literally from the body of another human being.  No one has to die for my memory to remain.

            Itzy:  Well, to each his own.  After the Spaniards came, our people died in numbers that made our sacrifices look like pittances, and they killed us in your name.  So don’t judge me.

            Jesus:  Sorry about all that.  I will agree with you that some people have become a little carried away in their worship, and I certainly do not condone any killing.

            Itzy:  Thank you.

            Moses:  I suggest we move on to happier subjects.  We were talking about bread, after all.  We bless the bread to honor the abundance God has given us.  It is no one’s body, just the product of the harvest that has been given to us.

            Mohammed:  All this talk about agriculture and growing grain.  Pah!  I do not even mention such things in the Koran.

            Itzy:  Why not, when the growing of grain has been so important to life?

            Mohammed:  Our concern is life in Paradise, where there will be no work, just wonderful food and beautiful women.  Here is one of the stories I tell about this very subject:

            Once upon a time a good Moslem man asked me, “I am fond of cultivating.  Would God permit this in Paradise?”

            I said, “Yes of course, but the difference is that you will reap in abundance and it will be effortless (Jacob 203).  I should add that in this world, Itzy, maize was very much like that for us.

            Itzy:  It is true that the corn grows easily, and that is why our people did not starve.  When the Spaniards went back to Europe, they took our grain with them.  Many were suspicious of it, but the Turkish farmers (204) did well with it.

            Mohammed:  Yes, it traveled all the way to our people, where it required no oxen or plow.

            Jesus:  Grain has another meaning other than the feeding of a people, one that is significant to Christianity.  That is, “a grain of wheat has to fall into the ground and die so that there can be many grains (Pennington 49).”  Perhaps I was a grain of wheat to my people.

            Moses:  We are not so far apart in that regard.  Sacrificing for others is important in any religion, for it keeps people alive.  Our bakers commemorate that whenever making a loaf of challah; a portion of the dough is burned in the oven as a sacrifice.  We call that separating challah (Sheraton 55).

            Mohammed:  Yes, and we place bread on the graves of our loved ones, rather than flowers or stones (Seligson 10) in remembrance.  We also have a prohibition against cutting bread with a knife, which we perceive to be a violent act (46).  Is that not also the case for you, Moses?

            Moses:  Actually, not exactly.  Our breads were very small, so it was simply a more practical matter to break it than to cut it.  We had no religious reason not to use a knife (Jacob 36).  This is where the term “breaking bread” originated, I believe.

            Jesus:  We do not concern ourselves with cutting or not cutting bread, but we do hold it in high esteem.  The place of my birth, Bethlehem, literally means “house of bread” (Jacob 91).  We also ask in prayer for our daily bread.

            Itzy:  It is very interesting to understand that even with our differences, bread is an important part of all our cultures.  This is true even in a time when food is, in many places of the world, readily available and even taken for granted.  It is an ancient part of all of our ancestry that will be with us forever.

            All:  Hear, hear.

            They raised their nearly empty cups of coffee and tea in a final toast, and took their last bites of rolls.  Once finished, they each bought more rolls to go and departed from the bakery, leaving nothing but several confused customers.

            Itzy’s Cornbread

Maize was never embraced by the Europeans as much as it could have been, even though it grew easily and required little work to produce.  It was, however, embraced by Turkish farmers in a time when they needed such food, and certainly it was an important grain in the Americas.  Cornbread remains a staple food of the American South…we in Texas eat it with black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day to celebrate new beginnings.  The recipe that follows leaves out the human blood.

Combine one cup corn meal, one cup flour, ¼ cup sugar, 4 teaspoons baking powder, and ½ teaspoon salt in a bowl.  In a separate bowl, mix one egg with one cup milk, then add to the dry ingredients.  Add 3 tablespoons vegetable oil and mix.

Put mix into a greased muffin tin and bake for 20-25 minutes at 450º.          

Part IV:  While the Dough Rests

             While the dough is rising, let’s visit for just a bit.  Think about some favorite bread memories, happy times where bread was shared with family and loved ones.  One of mine was when I was a little girl, sitting at my grandfather’s kitchen table and eating bread with him.  It was Wonder Bread, and I loved rolling slices from a fresh loaf into little balls, then soaking them in milk.  Grandpa buttered his, but I had no interest in anything on my bread.  I still don’t. 

    In my memory, the bread is closely associated with the love I felt for my grandfather, whom I knew loved me in return.  I have always loved bread, and maybe this early memory is one of the reasons I do.

            A more recent memory involved eating at a diner after seeing a particularly inspiring movie.  As I was eating and chatting, I suddenly stopped to notice that the dinner rolls were some of the best I had ever eaten:  cooked soft but not doughy and just a little sweet.  In this memory, what is special was the creative idea—this project—that sprang from the simple act of eating that roll. 

            What are your memories?  What thoughts or feelings do you associate them with?  Following is another of my bread memories, something we can chat about while we wait for the bread.  Bread, I believe, has the power to help strangers overcome their discomfort about getting to know one another, allowing them to become friends.

 Tortilla Lessons

            Small towns are places where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and if they don’t, they make things up.  Those who move to such a town, rather than being born there, risk years, sometimes decades, of being “new” in town.

            DePue, Illinois, is situated in a small valley.  Surrounded on three sides by hills, DePue is off the beaten path and isolated from other towns in central Illinois.  On the fourth side, Lake DePue, which Father Marquette is said to have navigated, stretches out to meet the Illinois River; residents use the lake for boat races in the summer and snowmobiling, skating, and ice hockey in the winter.

            In the early 70s, however, DePue was hardly the picturesque town these images might convey.  The center of town, known as Smoky Hollow (because of the pollution), was lined with tiny houses, all looking the same, that circled the chief source of DePue’s economy:  first New Jersey Zinc, and later Mobil Chemical.  The air carried the pervasive scent of sulfur, and some days the air was so poor that the paint literally came off the cars and houses.  There is to this day, long after the factory closed, an unusually high incidence of certain diseases among the population, most notably multiple sclerosis.

            Downtown was a few long blocks of buildings with boarded-up windows, with only a few amenities.  The most profitable businesses were the many taverns, which served up plenty of beer, fried chicken, and tacos.

            When I moved to DePue at age 12, the other students had their established roles.  Denise was a stunning beauty, Steve and Ray John were the athletes, Lynn was the tall blonde, and Jeanne was the creative spirit.  There was no place, no welcome for another.  The only role available to me was that of outsider.

            Because of the factories, DePue had many second-generation Mexican families who had arrived for work many years before.  With a population that was about 60% Mexican, I was surrounded by brown faces.  I confess to doing some staring, because I had always gone to school with gringos.  Also, because the rest of the population was primarily Eastern European Catholic, I was one of about five Protestants in my class.  I’d never been a minority before.  All this was overwhelming for a prepubescent girl trying to fit in and failing miserably.

However, bread, with its magic, ultimately would bridge the gap and ease the discomfort of mutual strangers. 

Each year our class had two projects to earn money for a class trip that we would take after graduation.  One project was generally a bake sale and car wash or other similar activity.  The other was a class supper, and we were overjoyed when our class was selected to sell tacos; this was the project that always brought in the most money.

            To prepare, there were flour tortillas to make.  Lots of them.  By hand.  Today, if I want, I can run over to Kroger and pick up a package of tortillas, but not back then.  Even if we could, it would be considered a crime against humanity not to make the tortillas.  So the Mexican mothers banded together with the girls, and we had our first lesson in making tortillas.

            I remember huge mixing bowls filled with flour, lard, and water.  Thinking back, it’s amazing that anyone in that town lived to an old age, because those tacos were a cholesterol nightmare.  After making the fatty, lard-filled tortillas, we would add refried beans and hamburger, close the tortillas with flat toothpicks, and deep-fry them.  The thought makes me cringe now, but back then I couldn’t get enough of them.

Each of us was given a small rolling pin.  I had always assumed that little rolling pins were toys for little girls, and I never realized they had practical value, but a tortilla is a small piece of bread, so it needs small tools. 

            The trick, we were told, in rolling a tortilla was to have enough flour on the surface and on the rolling pin to keep the dough from sticking.  This was easier said than done, and I remember peeling and scraping plenty of dough from my work area.  Another ruined tortilla.

            Another trick was to keep flipping the tortilla over and over, making a few brisk, quick swipes with the rolling pin, in order for the tortilla to have a pleasantly round shape.  Mine tended to look more like the state of Illinois, which I, of course, insisted was just an expression of state loyalty.

            Once a tortilla was rolled out, it was placed on a hot, lightly greased griddle, where it bubbled quickly.  Once the bubbles come up, our job was to grab the hot tortilla with fingertips and flip it to the other side, leaving browned circles where the bubbles had once been.  Too much grease, and the tortilla was soggy, though I’m not sure why I was concerned about this.  After all, it would ultimately be deep-fried anyway!  Too little grease, and of course, there would be more scraping of dough.  Our fingers were tinged with the sting of light burns, but we quickly learned to flip the bread with confidence and ease.

I was not the only one challenged with this exercise, but somehow we managed.  We did so with a lot of laughter and gossip, the kind of intimate exchanges that only women have.  Those women who guided us were kind, patient, and filled with good humor, so we felt no pressure, no concern about whether we would be able to roll 1,000 tortillas in an evening.  In this simple act of honest work, led by cheerful women who didn’t care where I was from or why I wouldn’t get out of town, I felt a rare moment of welcome, of friendship, and of bonding.  For a young girl feeling alone in the world, that was worth a lot.  To this day, I love Mexican food, though in my current hometown of Houston the style is Tex-Mex.  I haven’t seen one of those deep-fried tacos in years; but if I do, I will bite into it with the affection that rises, like the dough, from a happy memory.

Making Flour Tortillas

            Sift two cups flour and 1 teaspoon salt.  Add 3 tablespoons shortening with your fingers until the shortening disappears.  Add enough water to form a ball of dough.  Knead for two minute.  Roll into 1 ½” balls and let stand for 15 minutes, then roll dough into 7” circles.  Cook on a hot skillet until bubbles appear on surface, then flip.  (Johnson-Coleman 191)

 Easier said than done!

            To make a loaf of bread, one generally follows a recipe.  Sometimes, though, one ingredient is missing.  Often a substitution can be found; for example, if there is no cornstarch in the cupboard, two tablespoons of all-purpose flour will provide the necessary thickening.  One cup of packed brown sugar can take the place of one cup of granulated sugar (Better Homes and Gardens 871).

In the Middle Ages, however, people made potentially deadly ingredient substitutions to avoid starvation.  Bread was sometimes made with pine bark and straw (Jacobs 148).  Other breads were made with substances that produced hallucinogenic responses.  Camporesi writes of “…the chronic and temporary drunkard tipsy on wine or – most incredibly – on bread, wandered about alongside cripples, the blind, scrofula sufferers, fistulates, those with sores or ringworm, the maimed, the emaciated, those with goiter, abdominal pains and dropsy (123).”

With agricultural knowledge from the great civilization of Rome long lost to barbarism (Jacob 120-121), some bread eaters paid the ultimate price for food.  As rye grain developed a fungus, people used the sweet-smelling ergot in their bread products.  Ergot, however, is a powerful poison, and the result of this massive ignorance was the plague (123).

Most troubling, however, were those who lived with no bread at all.  There were those who tried desperately to stem the tide of great famine; monasteries sold their treasures abroad to feed the starving (143).  With little bread and poor substitutes, the will to survive created desperate people.  “But men dying of hunger, more ‘shades of the dead’ than living beings, ‘emaciated, wounded and pale because of the extreme discomfort…shades and not human bodies,’ could become the necrophagous butchers of other men…(Astolfi in Camporesi 50)”

And so a new generation of cannibalism had begun.  The difference, Jacob points out, between ancient civilizations that embraced cannibalism as a spiritual act and those of the Middle Ages, was that “the peoples of the Middle Ages were Christian; consequently they were conscious of the deadly sin.  Out of the confines of their bad conscience sprang the many popular legends werewolves and cannibals (149).”

            While werewolf stories were not first invented in the Middle Ages, it is the image of the medieval werewolf that has survived to modern times.  Following is a story of one such werewolf.

A Werewolf Tale

            There are the priests who work night and day to feed the people, even as the odds work against them and their congregations grow ever smaller.  They are good men, holy men, and some are even saintly.  Others are in service only to their own ambition, and hoard the bread, growing fat while praying to the heavenly Father.  Generally, it is easy to tell who is a saint and who is not.  Often those who sing the hymns the loudest are least likely to live those hymns on a daily basis, and instead live their lives for show and recognition.

            Holiness, though, can take many forms; and though they would burn me at the stake for saying so, in times of emergency the greatest may have to turn away from their books, their teachings, and their Pope, making rare and difficult sacrifices to do the painful but real work of God. 

            It was in a small village in France that Father Pierre worked his magic.  Oh, yes, he was kind to his parishioners, caring about each of their families.  He knew all their names, celebrating each birth and mourning each death.  Lately, the mournings were far outweighing the births, for there was no wheat, not in a poor village, anyway.  Only at the king’s castle, where baskets were piled high, was there food, and the poor of the city clamored for every crumb that was left over, waiting at the gates for the leftovers to be distributed.  Sometimes the dough was soaked in meat juices for something extra, then given to the poor to assuage the guilt of royalty (Jacob 143-44).

            Still, in this village, there were no gates at which to beg, and the people were growing thinner and fainter by the week.

            There was a road at the edge of town that led, eventually, to Paris, and many of the starving took this path, trying to reach the city before they were overcome.  Many did not make it past the village, and their bodies could be seen lying on the side of the road, rotting.  The priest and his flock did their best to give them proper burials, but the task was overwhelming and funds were low.  The cemetery was far larger than a village of that size would normally need, and there was no sign of better things to come.

Father Pierre spent many nights in seclusion, praying for relief.  What sin had provoked such Godly anger?  In silence he communed with the Son, asking for a way to help his beloved flock—such gentle folk must surely be worth saving.  Night after night he prayed, forsaking sleep so he wouldn’t miss the answer when it came.  Come it did, in the stillness of a spring evening.  It stunned and pained him, and he spent many nights afterward searching his soul in fear that some demon had taken hold of him; but Father Pierre was a man of God, and men of God bring courage to others when hope has left them, no matter the cost to the self.  He allowed himself the indulgence of a single tear, then shook off his pain to embrace his destiny.

By mid-summer there were slightly fewer bodies by the roadside, but no one noticed at first because the numbers were still too large to count, and the stench of wretched death still filled the air.  As summer stretched into autumn and the brisk winds began to blow, however, there were fewer yet.  Perhaps the tide was turning; after all, Father Pierre had sold all of the church’s goods and had earned enough to bring large helpings of meat to everyone.  It was possible that this would be a better winter than the last.  Hope soared, even among the weakest, who resolved to hold on a bit longer to wait for the miracle that would surely come.

            Something else was lurking, however, to cast an unease among the people, one that limited their hope.  A shadow had begun to fall in this land of warm friendships, a shadow that somehow managed to stay hidden from the moon’s light, a shadow that appeared most fiercely when the moon was bright and full and the village was its most picturesque.  Occasionally, when the winds grew fierce, there were those who heard a howling in the distance.  The animals were long gone, slaughtered hurriedly to feed the many who hungered, leaving the villagers vulnerable.  Fear grew to panic as people shared stories with one another of the violence that had befallen other villages.

“I’ve heard stories,” Jean-Paul said.  “Other villages have been subdued and destroyed completely by werewolves, and there’s no reason it couldn’t happen here.”  There were several others standing behind him nodding their heads and murmuring in assent.  If, indeed, there was a werewolf about, he would need to be destroyed.

Father Pierre smiled with understanding and gentleness.  “My children,” he said, “these are tales spread by the hungry.  No werewolves exist in this world.”

            “My brother saw one once,” Genevieve said.  “He said the wolf, when he stood on his hind legs, was twelve feet tall, and half as broad.  The only way he was able to get away was that he always carries a silver bullet with him, just in case.  There’s no other way to get to these beasts.  He was lucky, he was.”  More murmurs from the crowd.

Father Pierre sighed, knowing that in the battle of Scripture and superstition, the latter would always win.  “Perhaps we can seek him out, then,” he replied.  “We must assign our best men to the task, though we have little silver left with which to make bullets.  All of you, however, must strive to be faithful to God’s service such that this kind of punishment does not come upon us.  This means being true to all of His commandments and offering prayer and sacrifice.  Only the purest will engage in this task of conquering whatever beast has come to plague our home.”

In the battle between Scripture and superstition, Scripture provides a safe haven for the frightened, so there was no disagreement to this assignment.  The people of the village began to pray as they never had before, to help each other more, and to give to their church.  Father Pierre was never wanting for a volunteer to help with the many tasks a poor priest often had to do alone.

The shadow figure of the full moon proved elusive, however.  The odd thing was, everyone could feel it, could sense its icy evil, and yet no one was harmed.  Life continued to go on in the village as the mysterious presence came and went with the phases of the moon.  The only thing different was that fewer and fewer bodies lay littered by the side of the road, for which the people were grateful.  There existed a strange, uneasy truce between them and the stranger, though it did not lessen fear with time and waiting.  The pained howls of the tortured being woke them from sleep, and occasionally glimpses of the creature were seen, thought it ran away from anyone who came near it, slipping silently into the woods. 

            Meanwhile, Father Pierre was taken ill with a malady the village doctor could not cure.  He continued to perform the rites of his service, but he was visibly weakened and shaky.  He had always been robust in appearance, and the people were concerned about their great and good leader.  If he had to retire, or worse, what then?  Father Pierre had begged and pleaded successfully for meat for his people, while those in the surrounding areas were still starving to death.  Who would help them, if not he?  More prayer vigils began, this time for their great and compassionate leader, for help that medicine could not provide.

On the day of his last sermon, Father Pierre was acting strangely.  His eyes were wide with fright, and he spoke in rambling tones about the need to control one’s passions in order to be one with God.  Everyone said later that they could feel something unsaid in his words, a deep and great pain. 

He summoned his replacement, Father Gerard, and took to his bed.  When the new priest arrived, he found a frail and dying man ready for his last confession.

“The people of this village,” he began, his voice a soft whisper, “were, like the rest of the country, being torn apart by death from starvation.”

“Yes,” Father Gerard replied, “and you have created miracles in keeping your people healthy and strong by selling all of the church’s valuables and regularly meeting with officials for meat.  You will be praised for your actions.”

“No, I am afraid not,” said the elder priest.  “For I have not been truthful in my words or deeds.”

“What do you mean?

Father Pierre cleared his throat.  Lifting his head, he accepted the sip of water that was offered to him, then looked directly at Father Gerard.  “I was touched by a terrible curse that the hand of God has dealt to me.”

“Go on,” prodded Father Gerard, though he truly did not want to hear the truth that was about to come.

            “Each month I battled the demon inside of me, the demon that has haunted this village all these long months.  I hated the pain that I was causing my people.  My faith was strong enough that I harmed no one who was already alive, though I had to constantly fight the urge to do so.  Because I never acted on that desire, I lay before you near death, but I do so knowing that I killed no one.

“However, in that state, in the state of the creature, I came up with a scheme to feed my people.  What if I used the curse upon me to save the lives of others?  As the creature I was able to do what I could not do as a man:  to skin and gut the corpses of dead men and women who fell in misery by our roadsides.  Then, back in human form, I would prepare the meat to give to my flock.  They knew not what they were eating, for I told the story that I had begged and bartered for their food.”

            Father Gerard felt a sickness arise inside of him as he realized what Father Pierre had done.  Tears filled his eyes, as he realized the unimaginable dilemma of his colleague.  “My dear son, if what you have told me is true, there can be no place for you in God’s heaven.  You have fed the flesh of human beings to others who did not suspect, and now they are themselves condemned to a living death.

“And yet,” he added softly, “you have kept them alive and made your village strong.  You have made a difficult choice that no man should ever have to make.  The harvest is expected to be better this year, and perhaps we can keep them alive through more natural means. 

“I will make sure their souls are safe, and your secret shall never leave our confidence.”

With that, Father Pierre smiled a grateful smile and closed his eyes.  In a moment all the cares and weight of his burden were lifted; and perhaps, though we cannot know for sure, he was forgiven and welcomed into Paradise.  One thing I know is this:  whether it was a sin or not, I, Father Gerard, kept the promise of a great man.

Pretzels from the Middle Ages

Pretzels are believed to be a priestly invention from about 600 C.E.  A priest and baker twisted bread into the shape of praying hands and was thus known as prayer bread.  Here’s a recipe for pretzels to keep the werewolves at bay:

Mix 2 teaspoons yeast, three cups unbleached white flour, 1 tablespoon sugar, ½ teaspoon salt, 2 tablespoons butter, and one cup water in a bowl.  Knead until smooth and firm.  Divide the dough into twelve equal parts, then roll each part into a long snake.  Shape like a pretzel.  Cover and let rise for 45 minutes.

Heat the oven to 475°.  Put 4 cups water and 5 teaspoons baking soda in a saucepan and bring to a light boil.  Then turn the heat to low and drop the pretzels in, three or four at a time.  Cook for one minute.

Remove the pretzels from the water and place on a greased cookie sheet.  Sprinkle with coarse salt if desired.  Bake for 10-12 minutes.

(Harbison 35)

Part VI:  Baking the Bread

             After hours or even days, the dough has risen and has been shaped into a loaf.  It would appear by this time that this will be a good batch of bread.  Still, there could be other problems ahead.  If the temperature is off, the bread can brown too quickly while remaining doughy inside.  Or, it can become tough and dry.  The trick is to find the right balance of heat.

            Balance, in bread and in life, can be challenging.  Too much activity, and we can burn ourselves out.  Not enough, and we die with a life unlived.  Then there is balance in eating.  To eat bread or not to eat bread?  Some say that this food, so beloved for millennia, is causing our American waistlines to expand to unprecedented proportions.  Humans, as we know, are often capable of incredible levels of imbalance, as the following story suggests.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Nightly News. 

This just in from our newsroom:  militants from the various popular diet groups have begun full-scale attacks in what can best be described as a bread jihad.  Bread lovers, in response, have holed up in makeshift bunkers in their favorite bakeries to protect these ancient institutions from being destroyed by the anti-bread armies.  To assist our viewers in understanding the different groups involved and the level of seriousness of their demands, we begin tonight with a spotlight on who these people are and the tactics they use.

The group that creates the greatest level of fear is the Atkins Army.  Named after the late Dr. Robert Atkins, who published his New Diet Revolution in 1992, the Atkins Army keeps their carbohydrates low, in some cases as low as 20 grams per day.  Though Dr. Atkins stressed gradual increases in carbohydrate intake to determine the appropriate level for each individual, many in Atkins Army have determined that all carbohydrates are bad, and bread is one of the worst culprits.  Militants have been bombing bakeries and taking hostages, insisting on the development of low-carb breads.  Noting that a bagel can have 30 grams of carbohydrate (Atkins 386), more than a whole day’s allowance for some, the soldiers of Atkins Army are determined to create a carbohydrate-free America and are also urging people to sue bread manufacturers for withholding the truth from them.  Their goal is to take down the bread manufacturers and cripple the industry, much as the same attempt has been made against tobacco companies.

            Closely allied with the Atkins Army are the Caveman Dieters, who insist that the diet that existed in the world prior to the introduction of grain is the healthiest.  These followers of author Ray Audette also strive to eliminate beans, potatoes, dairy, and processed foods from American diets (Rawe 49).  The Caveman Dieters are also said to be receiving support from Louise Gittleman’s Fat Flushers, who consider wheat to be a allergenic substance that causes women to bloat (Gittleman 53).

            Unfortunately, the bread lovers, in response to these attacks, have sometimes responded by attacking less-militant groups who are clearly refusing to align with the anti-bread lobby.  These include the South Beach Dieters, the Protein Powers, and the Zoners, all of whom insist that moderate amounts of bread, particularly multi-grain varieties, are acceptable in their respective diets (Rawe 49).

            Just as terror is said to be funded in part by drug sales, the anti-bread militants are also being funded by unsuspecting Americans, who are purchasing products advertised as “low-carb” in mass quantities, to the tune of about $30 billion in 2004 (Kadlec 48).  These products, which range from diet books to low-carb ketchup, are working their way into American households at an increasing rate, with each dollar of profit going back to support the militant efforts.

            Nutritionists are warning that these militants are particularly dangerous because they are suffering potentially from chronic constipation, which is generating a lot of their anger.  They are encouraging Americans to resist attempts to keep them from a balanced diet of all food groups and urging caution.  Rather, they suggest Americans reduce their intake of candy, fried foods, and the like instead of whole grain breads.

            It appears we are in for a long haul with the bread wars, with no end in sight.  One way we can protect ourselves is to make our own bread, in the privacy of our own homes, where the militants aren’t likely to check up on us.  Of course, it is important to listen closely for clues that other family members might be joining the Atkins Army—be careful to whom you offer your bread.  Stay away from high-bread locations such as bakeries and bread aisles in supermarkets; many bakeries are now delivering their products in unmarked vans to protect their customers.  When visiting a restaurant that serves bread before a meal, check on their security before making that reservation.  The bread lovers are complaining that these restrictions impinge upon their rights, but these strict measures are necessary until the bread wars are over.

This has been part of our world, Dan Blather reporting.  Good night.

Dr. Atkins’ Protein Bread

For those who do need to limit bread intake, there are plenty of interesting alternatives.  Major sandwich chains are developing low-carb breads that utilize high-protein soy flour, for example.  Even Dr. Atkins himself recognized that life without bread is no fun.  Here's a recipe that is excellent with a big drizzle of butter on top.  It can also be made into French Toast and pancakes for a rich, hearty breakfast.

Basic Protein Bread:            (Atkins 372)

Combine three egg yolks, 2 tablespoons sour cream, 2 tablespoons butter (melted), ½ cup soya powder, and 1 tablespoon baking powder.  Mix well.

Beat three egg whites until stiff and fold into the mixture.  Pour into a buttered loaf pan and bake at 350º for 50 minutes.  Store in refrigerator.

Epilogue 

            Bread-making and story-telling have much in common.  Both require a level of patience and attentiveness to detail.  Both begin simply and expand in the process.  Sometimes a recipe or a story, unfortunately, falls flat, though it may still be edible, and even somewhat tasty.  A good story, like a good loaf of bread, satisfies and remains deep in the memory long after the experience has ended.

            This exploration in bread is only a beginning.  There are numerous other stories of history and culture that didn’t make the cut because to do so would mean completing an entire (and very large) book.  This is a subject that could provide a lifetime of joy, fun, and calories.

            It is no coincidence that as this project took shape, it became filled with religious figures and symbols:  a goddess, revered religious leaders, sacred bread, and priests.  Bread for ancient peoples was intertwined with religion, and maybe this has not changed for this modern woman.  Connecting, sharing, and loving:  this is the essence of bread.  Partaking of a fresh slice, we can touch the common thread among cultures, civilizations, and histories, and in so doing connect with the divine.

Works Cited

Arvin, Maile, Justin Bailey and Bobbie Keane.  “Cronus:  Leader of the Titans.”  From Oracle Thinkquest Education Foundation.  URL:  http://library.thinkquest.org/ ~18650/data/gods/titans/cronus.html.

Atkins, Robert C., M.D.  Dr. Atkins’ New Diet Revolution.  New York, NY:  Avon Books, 1992.

Better Homes and Gardens.  Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book

Bread Encyclopedia, The.  “Techniques.”  The Kitchen @ onecook.com, 2001.  URL:  www.onecook.com/reference/ brdteq1.htm.

Caldirola, Manuela, Nicoletta Negri, and Nathalie Aru.  Classic Breads:  Delicious Recipes From Around the World.  Maria Sabatino, translator.  New York, NY:  Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., 2004.

Dupaigne, Bernard.  History of Bread.  Sylvie Roder, Tony Roder, and Antonio Roder, Translators.  Abrams, Harry N., Inc.:  1999.

Gittleman, Ann Louise, M.S., C.N.S.  The Fat Flush Plan.  New York, NY:  McGraw-Hill, 2002.

GreekMythology.com.  “Demeter.”  2000-2003.  URL:  http://www.greekmythology.com/Other_Gods/Demeter/demeter.html.

Harbison, Elizabeth M.  Loaves of Fun:  A History of Bread with Activities and Recipes from Around the World.  Chicago, IL:  Chicago Review Press, 1997.

Jacobs, H. E.  Six Thousand Years of Bread:  Its Holy and Unholy History.  Lyons Press, 1997.

Jewish Publication Society.  Tanakh, a New Translation of the Holy Scriptures According to the Traditional Hebrew Text.  Philadelphia, PA, and Jerusalem:  The Jewish Publication Society, 1985.

Johnson-Coleman, Lorraine.  Larissa’s Breadbook:  Baking Bread & Telling Tales With Women of the American South.  Nashville, TN:  Rutledge Hill Press, 2001.

Kadlec, Daniel.  “The Low-Carb Frenzy.”  From Time Magazine, May 3, 2004, pp. 47-54.

Knight, K.  “Manna.”  From The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume IX.  New York:  Robert Appleton Company, 1910.  URL:  www.newadvent.org/cathen/09604a.htm.

Lindemans, Micha F.  Demeter.  From Encyclopedia Mythica, 1995-2004.  URL:  www.pantheon.org/articles/d/demeter.html.

McMakin, Tom.  Bread and Butter:  What a Bunch of Bakers Taught Me About Business and Happiness.  New York:  St. Martin’s Press, 2001.

Nagy, Greg.  “Homeric Hymn to Demeter.”  Diotima: Materials for the Study of Women and Gender in the Ancient World, 2000.  URL:  www.stoa.org/diotima/anthology/demeter.shtml.

Pennington, M. Basil.  Eucharist:  Wine of Faith, Bread of Life.  Liquori, MO:  Liquori/Triumph, 2002.

Rawe, Julie.  “Diets – How they Differ.”  Time Magazine, May 3, 2004, p 49.

Seligson, Susan.  Going With the Grain:  A Wandering Bread Lower Takes a Bite Out of Life.  New York:  Simon & Schuster, 2002.

Sheraton, Mimi.  The Bialy Eaters.  New York:  Broadway, 2002.

Summoning Spirit.  “Aztec.”  URL:  http://www.homestead.com/summoningspirit/ AZTEC~ns4.html.

Volkin, Sylvia.  “Bread – An Important Traditional Food.”  From The Oak Ridger Online, January 5, 2000.  URL:  www.oakridger.com/stories/010500/ foo0105000016.html.

Wheeler, Lawrence.  “Bread Recipes from the Kitchen of Lawrence Wheeler.”  URL:  http://www.asian-links.com/larry/bread.html.

Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia.  “Demophon.”  2004  URL:  http://en. wixipedia.org/wiki/demophon.

Wood, Ed.  World Sourdoughs From Antiquity:  Authentic Recipes for Modern Bakers.  Berkeley, CA:  Ten Speed Press, 1996.

Zimmerman, J. E.  Dictionary of Classical Mythology.  New York, NY:  Bantam , 1971.

Images

Demeter, page 7:  Dioses D&D Third Edition.  79 Ilustraciones de Deities and Demigods & Cubierta.  URL:  www.fosfoman.com/galerias/dioses.htm.

All other photographs taken by Nadine Galinsky.