Baking or Buying?

I grabbed my wife’s arm. I have one last packet of flour left.  

“What is it, honey?” she said lovingly. 

“Let’s make bread.” 

Her loving look faded ever so slightly. But we needed food.

“The bread will keep us until at least tomorrow,” I said.

It was almost seven in the evening, day 48 of COVID-19 lockdown. The reality of being at home for more than a month played on my mind. Others I had spoken with during the day couldn’t wait for this to end. 

The anxiety inside of me was building. Our children had not eaten in almost a day. Feeding a family of five on one salary and paying bills is daunting. Many shops are closed. Transport is almost non-existent. When I walk to one of the open shops, I can see hunger on everyone’s faces. I’m worried. We’re told there’s enough supply for the moment, but there is no money. It’s the not knowing that’s the toughest. How will we all survive? 

But we have skills. And eat we shall. 

“Please tell me that you’re not going to bake bread. You’ll make a mess.” It was the response from my wife that I was expecting. She likes to tease me about my culinary skills. 

“It won’t be difficult,” I said. “I have the yeast (I found it after searching for half an hour), and I have the butter.” I paused. “But I don’t have sugar.”

Sugar is an essential component. It feeds the yeast. 

“We’re out!” She snapped. The children laughed so I laughed too. But that wasn’t the correct response as I received a spoon to the backside. “But we have oil. See if that works.”

“I haven’t baked bread in almost two years,” I said, smiling. 

“Some chef you are!” My wife said. Her playful attitude was showing itself. 

“Before lockdown, it was easier to just buy a loaf at the shop.”

“I miss the smell of fresh-baked bread,” she said. “But we’ll see if your oily concoction works.” 

I thought back to standing in our kitchen as a child, barely able to look over the counter. I’d watch my mom kneading the dough with vigor, but also with such ease. 

I clumsily poured out some flour, most of it onto the counter. But I was in a hurry; I could care less what the bread would come out looking like. We had to eat. 

“If my mom was here now she’d be giving me more than just advice,” I laughed. The times with my mom were good. 

As I poured the warm water, I thought of those who didn’t have this luxury. My heart wept for them. “Oven on, check.” 

“Are you baking bread or starting an engine?” My wife called from the other room. 

“Oops!” I said, “I haven’t let the dough rise. Oven Off, check.” 

Two hours and several hungry groans later we had what looked like bread. 

“This is the last butter and jam.” I set it on the table. 

I thought about all of the people throughout the country with no bread on their table this evening. This was a bread full of compassion. Not all are this fortunate. I took a bite and counted our blessings.