My mother’s hands have shaped at least a thousand loaves of bread. She learned this from her mother, who learned it from her mother, long before.
In Germany during the war-torn years of World War II, my grandmother would send her 14-year-old daughter, with linen-bundled leavened dough in a bicycle basket, to pedal off to the nearest village. There, a baker offered up his oven to those who did not have one in their homes. While their loaves were being baked, the women gathered, sharing company, experiences, and advice. Another errand would be to run to the butcher and for dry-goods until the bread was done and ready to pick up. Then all would hurry home again, the heavenly aroma of steaming, fresh-baked loaves lingered in the air as the women left the village on separate paths.
