Sending some love across the miles

Whoever said that food isn’t love didn’t know what he was talking about.  

This is a yellow ruler and a batch of my family’s Irish Soda Bread recipe.  I can’t account for the ruler, but the recipe has been passed down through who-knows-how-many generations of women, each adding, altering and tweaking to her preference.  Each woman (and, I can hope, a few men, perhaps) made up this bread to sustain, warm, comfort, praise, love, or generally provide for their families and friends and bake sale goers.  None of these people, apparently, thought to cut down the recipe.  

I am sworn to secrecy as to the exact recipe, but I must give you a general idea of the scale of it, just in case the picture doesn’t make it clear.  That is 12 cups of flour and 4+ cups of milk.  There is a pound of raisins in there, and a pound of butter.  Uh, and some other stuff (because that is starting to sound too much like a recipe and old Irish women are rolling over in their graves in preparation for haunting me).  But one of the other things is Caraway Seed. 

That’s it!  I promise not to say any more.  Settle down, Mumsy.* 

Anyway, I made a batch of this last night.  One regular bread loaf, one round in the cast iron skillet, a dozen regular-sized muffins, and a billion mini-muffins.  They make absolutely delightful accompaniments to tea, either at breakfast, or perhaps in the afternoon, or right before bed.  They are just sweet enough to sub as dessert, but not so sweet that they can’t be a hearty breakfast.  It freezes well, and keeps forever on the counter even without freezing.  Just add a dab of butter to bring it back from the brink of staleness. 

I learned this recipe from my mother.  So did my sister, though I have no proof that she has ever independently chosen to make up a batch.  As I was stirring the batter, which takes a lot of muscle, I was thinking of my mother.  This bread is all tied up with the best kind of memories of her.  I was remembering funny things, and tea, and being covered in flour ahead of St. Patrick’s Day, as we made dozens of loaves of bread for some reason or other.  Good memories.  

I was thinking of my step-father.  It was from his family that this recipe came to us.  He loved a slice of soda bread or a couple of muffins with a dab of butter and a cup of piping  hot tea (Red Rose, mostly, and he had the little figurines to prove it).  Also good memories.  

When the first bits came out of the oven (the minis, which bake in 25-30 minutes), I broke one in half and took a bite.  As the muffin touched my tongue, I had the most intense, reflexive, emotional wave wash over me.  That one bite of muffin made me weep.  Deep, soul-tugging sobs as all of these feelings just bubbled up and out.  

I’m fine.  It felt good to cry about those things that feel so far away most of the time.  

It was a heady reminder of the power of food, and of traditions, and of the things that connect us to one another even when we’re not together, or not even alive.  

So, like many women before me, I baked this bread with love and care, mixed and baked it as best I could, with attention to every detail and nuance of the recipe (I’ve doubled the baking powder and soda, as well as the vanilla; sorry Mumsy), to feed to my Partner and my children, of course.  But I made it with the intent to wrap it carefully (I used ziplocks and bubblewrap and a beautiful piece of fabric) to mail to my brother and sister, far though they may be this Christmas.  

I hope that it will last them from Christmas to the New Year.  The hardest time for remembering in our family.  

This New Year’s Eve, it will be ten years since our father died of a gunshot wound to the head.  His soul, I hope, is at peace.  The soul of our mother is more in question.  My brother and sister have been somewhat battered on the oceans of life since then, and in whatever way you send out messages to the universe, I wonder if you could send them a little bit of peace this year as they contemplate this past decade.  Perhaps we can all add to their bread in bringing them a little warmth and calm this year of all years.  

***

*Mumsy was my lovely Irish grandmother.  She would have a genuflection and some very colorful blessing to add to a reference to the dead.  How about this one: May her soul rest in the loving bosom of Jesus.  Yes I think we all need a loving bosom of one kind or another.