In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return to the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shall return.
-Bible (Old Testament)
Genesis 3:19.
There is something basic, earthy about bread, don’t you think? It is vital for our survival. It is universal. It comes from land and it is indispensable in culture; the way we produce it, shape it and use it, with its meaning and symbolic connotations to land, dirt, landscape and locality. All cultures have it and handle it differently. The ancient wheat silo of known Europe was once savagely taken by the Romans just because of its vast fields from which bread came; bread is land, land is the people.
My maternal grandmother used to bake bread every Sunday in a tiled stove 150 years old. Her ancestors baked bread in it and passed the knowledge of bread baking on to her. It didn’t start with the dough, it began with the land.
“Land is precious, one day your mother will inherit all the fields. You will have food after I am gone.”
The fields were in my family for generations; ploughed, cut, harvested, rearranged, healed, fathered, loved. Every season was different; with its colours, smells, shapes and textures. The refreshing air in the mornings, the dew that one could breath in and collect on the top of their shoes; just enough to feel the slight sting of the morning on one’s toe tips. The loving preparations for moulding the landscape always began before the morning mass. The patch of dirt was waiting to get ploughed and where the plow cut through the skin of earth, there the sower will put seeds; he will father the earth and make it in its own image.
“First you need flour.”
The room was dark and the only light during the day came from a small window, so the door had to be open, letting the cool air in. One could smell the mouldiness of the 150 year old house. The flour in the strainer, whose edges were made of straw, snowed down the precious dust until the table was covered with a white pile. In the middle came a hole, in it came an egg, salt, water and yeast. The kneading began as a sticky wet unpleasant action of repetitive movements until the dough was smooth and willing.
The ploughing was quick. The business of cutting the earth open was a repetitive action of going back and forth opening the ground and making it compliant. The sower came with a bag and walking up and down and making the same movements, he planted the grain that would rise. Other fields were planted with different vegetation. They made colourful patches in a quilt blanket; buckwheat, barley, millet, corn, wheat, and oilseed rape knitted the landscape.
“It will be corn bread today. Or would you like barley?” They have completely different tastes, colour and appearance. “Well… I would like your mixed bread. It smells so nice when it’s done.” The dough was laid in a slavjača; a straw basket in the kitchen close to the tiled stove, and we waited for the dough to rise and be worked on again.
The rain begot the seeds in earth’s womb and they slowly began to rise from the ground. Time has an essential role in the fathering of the land; it cannot be hurried, delayed or stopped. The grain grows at its own pace and with it the design of the landscape.
“It has been one hour now, let’s see if the dough is ready.” Sliding the shroud back, the yellowish ball revealed itself.
“It needs some more time.”
“How do you know that it is ready?”
“It is like the grain. We see it grow and take on new forms. The colour tells you when it is ripe. Colour tells all things.”
She then took the basket and went to the table. She took the dough out and the smell of salty yeast filled the room. The dough was put on a thin layer of flour. Her hands were white from the flour balm that kept them from sticking to the ball. Patiently her hands were (trans)forming the ball, taking it apart and putting it together again until it became a loaf.
The grain was golden, the corn started to lose its milkyness and it was time to go to the fields and steal the neighbour’s corn, make a fire and grill it. It was harvest time. The harvester came and like a hairdresser skinned the land of hair; the land was bald again. The harvester left marks, an irrefutable design on the land. The tattoo was there for all to see; this land has been worked, it has produced and it will be worked again.
The grain is stored in a hayrack awaiting its turn at the mill. The straws are carefully selected and put away for weaving baskets. When the mill is free the grain turns to flour, slowly appearing kilogram after kilogram; sliding like an hour of sand from the upper chamber through the grinding teeth to the flower bag. Some of the grain is kept for next season; the circle is complete.
The tiled stove opened its huge mouth and revealed its burning bowels. With a wooden stick she pushed away the glowing pieces of burnt wood and placed the loaf directly on the solid hot tongue. After some time the hot room was filled with the smell of bread. She took the loaf out and the alluring smell invited us to have a bite. “Not yet!” The bread was waiting for the last touch, just like the corn was waiting for the mill. She sprayed water on the crust to make it crunchier. The smell became even stronger.
“It doesn’t have the right colour yet?”
“No. It has to be browner.”
The drugging smell became unbearable. She put the loaf out and wrapped it in a wet shroud and placed it in a slavjačato cool down and harden the crust. When she revealed the loaf it was brown, and had scars on it. It looked like the same tattooed land the grain came from, from which it was made.
