One of my favorite gastronomic childhood memories is savoring a slice of homemade bread, warm from the oven. Many Mennonite moms baked bread for their families, and our mom was no exception. As she progressed down the “crunchy” path, we began making our loaves with whole wheat flour and honey. As a teenager, I even developed a few recipes on my own. I was well acquainted with yeast. In my freshman college speech class, when the assignment was to give a class speech to instruct or inform about something, you can bet I explained all about bread baking. I even awoke early that morning to bake a loaf to pass out samples in class, a true “show and tell.”
Several weeks ago, I sought membership in the sourdough club. I purchased sourdough starter from the home baker’s north star, King Arthur Flour. I followed the directions religiously, daily feeding the gooey mess with flour and water weighed on a kitchen scales. When the starter was sufficiently ripe and bubbly, I followed a tried and true recipe and baked my first loaf. As the round mass of dough rose in my red Le Creuset dutch oven, so too did my pride. Imagine: a perfect loaf the first time! It looked lovely with its razor cut scorings, but my, was it ever a dense brick! I couldn’t cut it with a bread knife so as guests arrived, I sawed the slices with an electric knife. The bread would best be described as “toothsome.”
I hate to fail, to not appear capable. No I mean I really hate it. Whatever I do, I want to be the best at, even if its baking sourdough bread. (Who else would call their blog, Domestic Goddess Writes?! The actual inspiration was a spoof on the fact that I grew up Mennonite and happened to have a lot of drive, but very few outlets and so I tried to do all the domestic things with excellence. I have joked all my life that what I was really trained to be was a domestic goddess. By the time I have explained all that to people, it seems like a mute point).
Over Christmas, I had an opportunity to make a vulnerable, leading statement to one of my children about my need to do things with excellence. They replied, “well you are a perfectionist mom!” I’ve been mulling this over; why do I need to be such an expert? Why do I push so hard? Why can I only be satisfied if I see myself in a certain light? Is it just how I am wired? Is it because I am the youngest of seven children? Is it because I had to leave childhood behind earlier than most, because of our family’s circumstances? And if I am that kind of person, how do I even have any friends?!
When I was sixteen, I tried so hard to be perfect. Our family life was tenuous; we were teenagers caring for our stroke afflicted mother. We were earning the income, paying the bills, taking care of the household. As is classic with anorexia, my need for perfection was strong. In the absence of balance and control, I focused on my weight. I whittled it down down down and luxuriated in the false sense of control it afforded me. I prepared and fed others the food I would never deem to ingest. I starved myself for a year and a half, until I couldn’t anymore. With a messed up metabolism and a bottomless hole in my heart, I became pudgy and loathed myself for no longer being perfect.
It is no accident that four decades later, I am still trying to perfect food. It brings me such joy to attend to every detail of a meal, and then present it as a gift to my husband, to guests, to instagram friends. Clearly I am a detail person and relish in the composition of taste, smell and presentation. I always say that we eat with our eyes first. Food is about so much more than fuel in our bellies; it is about hunger and satiety, a full heart, about being cared for and loved, and the joy of sharing such a sense-filled experience with family and friends.
Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. Perhaps instead of pushing, we need compassion, even for ourselves. Others love when we share our flaws; it makes us relatable. Please hear me now, in my gravest voice, telling you that my first loaf of sourdough was a flop! Some step didn’t work in the process, and I am now back on the learning curve, not at all an expert. Those are painful words for me to say. But there is another loaf and it is currently on the rise. I aspire to not only show the gorgeous, crusty, instagram worthy bread, but to also embrace the messy kitchen, which birthed the loaf and happens to be a place of warmth and belonging.
