Our Daily Bread

OUR DAILY BREAD

If bread is really the staff of life, then my Mom's coffee bread, or "pulla," as it is known in Finland, is testament to feeding the bodies and souls of her family.

"Pulla" is a staple in Finland, made and eaten by every household. When we immigrated to Canada many years ago, Mom continued making this sweet bread every week, never following a recipe. Flavoured with fresh-ground cardamom, kneaded with a firm hand, and braided intricately, it resulted in an impressive looking loaf. My siblings and I loved it warm out of the oven, sliced thickly. It was so rich and tasty; butter was not required. Sometimes for a change, Mom shaped the dough into buns; other times she made it into an unusual crust for a pie, or formed it into a ring for special occasions. No matter what she did, it was always a part of our daily menu, always delicious, always coveted by our friends.

A young lad who delivered our newspaper had tasted my Mom's coffee bread. One day he announced that his birthday was in a few days and the only thing he wanted was his very own loaf of pulla. Mom smiled and said she was sure it could be arranged. Sure enough, on his birthday, there was a loaf ready for him. We heard later that he went home and devoured it all himself, without sharing a crumb with anyone. Yes, Mom's coffee bread was loved far and wide. She made it for social functions where baking was required, and the plate always came back empty.

When the grandchildren arrived, they loved their Grandmother's pulla as much as we did, and could consume a loaf in no time flat. Once when my parents came to babysit my sister's two boys for a week, Mom promised to make them their favourite treat.

I was out that day, and when I got home, an urgent telephone message from Mom said that she could not get my sister's oven to work. The loaves were ready to go in the oven, and would be ruined if they were not baked immediately. I explained over the phone that the oven had a switch that had to be turned on first, before the oven itself would go on. In their frustration, neither she nor Dad could figure it out.

It was over an hour before I finally got to my sister's place. As I hurried down the sidewalk, I heard my parents' worried voices in the backyard. There they were, standing at the barbecue, trying to cook the coffee bread on the grill. The loaves were charred. My mother was upset over the wasted ingredients, but more so that her grandsons would not enjoy the fruits of her labour. I showed her how the oven worked, but it was too late; the bread was ruined. She adamantly stated that from now on she would do her baking at home in her own, familiar kitchen.

A few times over the years, I had tried making the bread myself, but the results lacked Mom's finesse. I didn't seem to have her touch.

When I became a grandmother myself, I tried again to master this culinary art. As I mixed the yeast that made the dough rise, it made me think of how Mom stayed home to raise four children. Adding the flour reminded me of our well-blended childhood. The exotic scent of cardamom represented the spice she added to our lives. When I sprinkled sugar atop the loaves, Mom's sweetness came to mind.

I didn't braid the loaves tightly enough that time, and they spread too wide. The next time I made it, I forgot to add the raisins. Another time, I couldn't find fresh cardamom and used commercially ground cardamom instead, which made the flavor less intense. Still I persevered, and the coffee bread turned out a little better each time. When the day came that the finished product was as close to Mom's as it could be, it was all about keeping traditions alive.

Mom can no longer knead the dough because of arthritis in her hands, but where there's a will, there's a way. Mom needs Dad. Dad kneads for Mom.

We did not live by bread alone. The coffee bread that nourished us for years also nurtured our spirits. Behind its mouth-watering fragrance was the comfort of knowing that when we walked in the door, it meant Mom was home. That, in itself, was a blessing.

Maria Harden
(c) 2002

Story ID:	563
Written by:	Maria Harden (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Winnipeg Manitoba Canada
Year:	2002
Person:	My Mother