A few years back, I decided to learn how to bake homemade bread. My first time, I failed miserably. The loaf came out of the oven as heavy as a brick, which it resembled. I had killed the yeast by using cold water (I rarely follow recipes). Deflated, I tossed the loaf on the back lawn thinking raccoons could make better use of it, since their claws are sharper than my knife.
Later that day, I happened to glance out the window to see a crow using his beak to drag the brick loaf to a mud puddle. The crow waited a minute then dug into the newly moist bread. I was deeply offended.
But I nevertheless stuck with trying to master the art of baking bread. I always use warm water for the yeast. I have found, depending on the type of bread I’m baking, that there is something very special about the kneading process. It feels transformative. I always get taken away from the cares and bustle of the world, if only for a few precious moments. I think of it as kneading the soul.
I happened to glance out the window to see a crow using his beak to drag the brick loaf to a mud puddle.
My Ojibwe mother spent a lifetime baking bread. With a family of eleven kids, she would bake a dozen loaves. The bread was placed in the freezer, but barely had time to freeze—in two days she would be back at the kitchen counter with her big bowl and packages of yeast and Gold Medal flour. When it came time to toss the bread on a floured surface to roll and knead, my siblings and I would scamper out of the kitchen. We feared our mother would force us to learn how to knead the dough. It looked as hard as chopping wood, and as repetitive as churning butter.
But, on occasion, I would stare at my mother from a distance, watching her floured hands pushing that bread over and over. She would knead for what seemed like forever. She never spoke. Her eyes were closed. Years later, I realize how kneading bread dough took her into another sphere, a peaceful place where her soul drifted away from the demands of whining kids and an abusive, drunkard husband.
American Indian women, especially those in previous generations, have led some tough lives. Ojibwe women had to gather wood and tan deer hides, while the men netted fish, hunted, and harvested wild rice.
Back when tribes signed treaties with the U.S. government, they were promised monetary payments as partial compensation for their land. Often those payments were extremely late, if they came at all. But the things that did arrive on time were sacks of flour and tubs of lard. That flour and lard got a lot of Indian families through cold and lean winters.
Fry bread is made from flour, lard, and water. Kneaded, or simply flattened into a patty, the dough is placed in a hot cast iron skillet and fried in lard. In a few moments, the bread comes out golden and crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. But you have to eat it right away because once it cools you can taste the greasy lard. And the cooled bread turns stiff as a brick.
Those old-time Indian women would fry the bread in the early morning and at the end of the day, for the final meal. I often wonder if they found solace in making the bread, like my mother.
I have often wondered if these women, like my mother, took to kneading the dough as a form of inner survival.
It was not just Indian women who slaved at the bread board, of course. I’ve heard from many elder, non-native women who spent a great deal of time baking bread. I have often wondered if these women, like my mother, took to kneading the dough as a form of inner survival—a respite from the soul-sucking drudgery of everyday life.
It took me decades to recognize how kneading the soul is so vital. While lost in kneading, the world just seems peaceful. There is a lingering glow of this feeling even after I’ve slipped my bread into oven.
Finding a quiet spiritual sphere is very difficult for a lot of people. I know those who pray to a God who never seems to listen or relieve them of their stress. I know people who fish all day with a case of beer only to come home depressed, especially if they were unable to catch anything. I know people caught up in a world of consumerism, buying things to fill a bottomless hole in their souls. The pleasure I get from shopping is always fleeting, especially when I look in my wallet the next day.
No, when it comes to finding inner peace, I’ll stick to kneading my soul. God knows baking bread is much cheaper than spending three or four bucks on a decent store-bought loaf. And despite the appearance of hard work, baking bread is, in fact, a breezy pleasure.
Now the challenge is to learn how to make soft and chewy cinnamon rolls like my mother’s. Mine always come out tough. I know, maybe if I stick to the recipe I’ll have better success. We’ll see. I sure don’t want to be humiliated by a crow ever again.
Mark Anthony Rolo is an enrolled member of the Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa and author of the memoir My Mother Is Now Earth.