Stones for Bread (39 page)

I sigh. A tight crumb with a dime-sized hole here and there. Underwear again.

When I tell Seamus my birth mother is coming, he asks if I need him to go with me. I shake my head, touched by his offer but feeling the need to do this on my own.

Mary Preston calls, and I direct her to Green Mountain Community Church. A diner seems too public, unrestricted, and I’m not certain how any of us will react. But I don’t want this woman—this stranger—at Wild Rise. Not yet. That’s mine. And having her there, to me, is nothing short of allowing her to trample my mother’s—Claudia’s—grave. The church is quiet enough to allow conversation but with enough people coming and going to the Friday night ministries that it won’t seem we’re all alone.

They wait for me in the lobby. My father is right; I look like her, Mary, or a version of her pinned up on the clothesline and left too long, stretched by gravity and wind and time. Taller and thinner, but our features are nearly identical. It’s startling, to both of us, I think. She blinks away tears when she sees me, clings to her daughter’s hand. I stop about three feet from them, a safe distance.

“Oh, my sweet Lord, I can’t believe you’re here,” Mary says.

I don’t know if her exclamation is reverent or blasphemous. I motion to the far corner of the room, near the gas fireplace, where a quartet of tub chairs face one another around a squat coffee table. “Is this good?”

Mary nods. Her daughter leads her by the elbow and they sit. I choose the chair facing Dana because sitting across from this woman who gave birth to me is like something out of a gothic story and I’m staring into a haunted looking glass that shows what I’ll be twenty years from now. It almost frightens me.

“So, I’m Dana, by the way,” my half sister says. “Obviously. I’m sorry my phone call last month was so . . . unsettling. We didn’t mean to do that to you.”

“I don’t know what way it could have been done to not be unsettling.”

“We just don’t want you to feel—”

“It’s fine.”

Dana breathes deeply. “Oh, that’s good. I was worried I really screwed things up.”

A clumsy silence follows. My legs tingle, my scalp. I scratch my calf through my jeans, only intensifying the creeping sensation. I’d like to gouge my skin. Instead, I cross my legs in an attempt to dampen the itchiness. Mary has her own nervous ticks; she slides the gold pinky ring on her right hand up and down, from nail to knuckle. She jiggles her knees. “You talked to Alistair, then.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

More silence.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says.

I crack my thumbs. “I suppose you could ask me some questions, if you have any.”

“Okay,” she says. “How long have you had your bakery?”

“Going on four years now.”

“And you like it.”

“I wouldn’t do anything else.”

“Did you go to school for it?”

“My mother taught me.” She flinches, the heart-shaped ring tumbling from her pinky. Dana quickly drops to the carpet and finds it beneath Mary’s chair. Gives it back to her. Mary squeezes it in both hands. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,” she says. “Don’t be. I understand. She is your mother.”

She asks a few more questions.
You’re not married?
No.
Someone special?
Yes, someone.
Is Alistair well?
Hanging in there. How probing this all feels, coming from some person I don’t know. It becomes clear the interrogation isn’t moving things forward in a way either of us thought it might, and the conversation lulls again. A few women I know walk by us. “Hey, Liesl,” they call, and I wave back. Finally, Mary tries again. “Do you have anything you want to ask me?”

I have to know. “Do you bake?”

“Not really.”

Dana laughs, a combination of nerves and humor. “Mom can’t even make those Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, you know the ones that pop out of the can? She always messes them up somehow—” She stops, clearly afraid she’s said the wrong thing.

For me, however, it’s the only thing I want to hear. If they had said, “Oh yes, Mary is a fantastic home baker. She makes bread from scratch every day, and pies and cakes and muffins, and wins blue ribbons at the county fair in every baking category every single year,” it would have devastated me. I would have, as my father feared, lost my mother all over again, never knowing if the bread had been loved into me, or was simply a genetic by-product of an accidental teenage pregnancy. But there is no doubt now. I am Claudia McNamara’s daughter, wild yeast harvester and keeper of the bread. It’s mine and hers and Oma’s—our bond, passed down through the generations. I’m still Liesl, and no matter what blood I have in my vessels, the brot is what sustains.

Mary slides a folded rectangle of blue paper onto the table. “This is your fa—birth father’s phone number. He’d like to hear from you. When you’re ready.”

“He knows you’re here?”

“Yes.” She spins her engagement ring around her finger, the solitaire not large but bright. “We . . . I mean, we were in love, as much as two naïve teenagers can be. We were just so young, and things were different then. We both thought adoption was best. But after . . . well, we couldn’t even look at each other, it all hurt too much. We kept in touch, though. A Christmas card most years, a phone call now and again, to catch up. He’s happily married with two sons, and a grandbaby too. He’s really looking forward to you getting in touch, but he knows it’s . . . a lot to, well, digest.”

Another stretch with no words. One of the meetings ends, and
people stream through the sitting area. Mary says, “I think we’ve probably taken up enough of your time.”

I ache for her. We both want the impossible. Her the daughter she never had as if she hadn’t given her away. Me the mother I did have, and only her, whole and alive. Opposite desires. I close my eyes, compelled by the tickling of the Spirit, and ask,
What now?

Trust me, and tumble into the midst of it. There’s a place you will meet her, eventually, in the middle
.

“I’m sorry. This probably wasn’t what you were envisioning when you called me,” I say.

“It was more than I could have hoped for,” Mary says. She touches the tiny gold heart again, now back in place on her finger. “This ring. I bought it on your first birthday. I’ve looked at it every day and thought of you. I’ve had thirty-three years to prepare for this day and I’m at a loss. You’ve had three weeks. I know it’s overwhelming. I’d like to stay in touch, but would understand if, for some reason, you didn’t want that.”

What did Seamus say? I haven’t lost—I’ve gained. “I’d like to try to get to know you better.” I look at Dana. “All of you.”

My birth mother finds a travel package of Kleenex in her coat pocket, wads three or four tissues together, and lowers her face into them. Her body trembles, and Dana rests a hand on her curved back. She sniffs, mops her eyes, and tries to smile at me. “I can be patient.”

We stand, our bodies contorted in odd configurations because we don’t know what to do with them. Dana tells me they have hotel reservations about two hours from here. Mary offers both her hands to me. I take them, and she tightens her fingers around mine. “Thank you,” she says.

I move my head, nearly imperceptibly, more a tremble than a nod. She wants to embrace me, but I’m not ready for that yet. She gives my hands one more squeeze and they go out as they came in, her daughter leading her by the elbow. I wonder what they’ll say about me during the drive home.

Sourdough Breakfast Cake

Makes one cake

L
IESL
’
S NOTES
:

Sourdough isn’t only for bread. Any grain-based baked good—from crackers to waffles, from muffins to pasta, can be made with a wild yeast starter. Why would the home baker want to incorporate sourdough into their regular baking? First, it’s an excellent way to use the starter you remove during feedings. Instead of throwing the excess in the trash, add it to your pancake batter or chocolate chip cookies. Second, a sourdough starter is an ecosystem of wild yeasts and beneficial bacteria that work together to add B-vitamins to grains, to break down gluten for better digestion, and to neutralize phytic acid and enzyme inhibitors. In other words, it’s good for you. And finally, because sourdough eventually becomes a way of life. Experimenting with different ways of using it is one of the most satisfying aspects of using wild yeast in your kitchen.

This recipe requires 24 hours of fermentation time. Begin the sponge on the morning of the day before you plan to serve the cake for breakfast. Also, please note this is not a sweet cake and really is more suited for a healthy breakfast than for a dessert.

I
NGREDIENTS

F
OR THE
S
PONGE
:

100 grams (½ cup) active sourdough starter

120 grams (1 cup) white whole wheat flour (unbleached all-purpose flour, or a mix of all-purpose and whole wheat, can be substituted)

120 grams (½ cup) water

F
OR
T
HE
B
ATTER
:

180 grams (1½ cups) white whole wheat flour (unbleached all-purpose flour, or a mix of all-purpose and whole wheat, can be substituted)

245 grams (1 cup) buttermilk or soured milk

55 grams (¼ cup) oil or 57 grams (¼ cup) melted butter

2 eggs

200 grams (½ cup) sugar

3 grams (½ teaspoon) salt

5 grams (½ teaspoon) vanilla extract

Zest of one lemon

9 grams (2 teaspoons) baking soda

2–3 cups of berries of your choice (fresh or frozen), because the weight of different fruits vary, no gram measurement is given

E
QUIPMENT
:

large glass or ceramic mixing bowl

plastic wrap or clean kitchen towel

9 x 13-inch baking dish

electric mixer or stand mixer with paddle attachment

D
O
A
HEAD

Twenty-four hours prior to baking the cake, combine the sponge ingredients—sourdough starter, flour, and water—in a glass or ceramic bowl. Cover with a damp cloth or plastic wrap and allow to rest for approximately 12 hours in a warm place (an oven with the light on works well).

The night before baking, add the rest of the flour, buttermilk, and oil. Mix well. Re-cover and allow to rest for another 12 hours.

O
N
B
AKING
D
AY

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease a 9 x 13 inch baking dish. To the sourdough batter, add the eggs, sugar, salt, extract, and lemon zest. Mix well with an electric mixer. Sprinkle the baking soda on top of the batter and mix again. Pour the batter into the baking dish. Gently scatter the berries across the top of the cake. Bake for 30 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.

Let cool for 5 to 10 minutes. Serve topped with freshly whipped cream.

Seamus’s truck rattles up to the loading area, and he bursts through the screen door, into the kitchen, leaving the engine to idle. I’m about to make a joke about it, a half joke, since he knows how I feel about the exhaust billowing into the bakehouse, but I see his face, lips white and eyes frightened, and ask, “What’s wrong? Is it Cecelia?”

He shakes his head. “My mother. She’s had a stroke.”

“Oh no. What can I do?”

“Pray,” he says. “And I need someone to watch Ceese for a few days. Do you think you could—”

“Done. She can stay with me as long as you need.”

He fills his barrel-sized chest with air, and while exhaling, envelops me in his arms. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, rocking me a little, more for his comfort than mine. And then releases me. “I have to go. My flight’s at five. I’m already cutting it close.”

“Just go. We’ll be fine here.”

Again he hugs me. “Okay. I’ll call you both later.”

Cecelia knows, when she gets off the bus, she’s staying with me. “Daddy told the school. And the teacher told me. She said Grandma is sick and it’s a ’mergency.”

“She’s right.”

We drive to their house to pack a bag for her. Seamus forgot to leave a key for me, and he did lock the door for the trip out of town. Cecelia, however, knows which rock in the flower bed is the fake one with the trapdoor in the bottom. She crawls under a shaggy evergreen bush and returns only seconds later. “Ta-da,” she says, holding the rather unrealistic resin stone in her hand. I unlock the door and we scramble through the house, collecting clothes for school and clothes for play, pajamas, toothbrush and hairbrush, and all her Littlest Pet Shop figures.