Last December, Marilyn’s son, Jonathan, made a mushroom pizza.
Marilyn says “his first attempt at making homemade pizza was a hit even for breakfast. I was most impressed.”
Marilyn also said that she and my mom talked about their first attempts in making bread: “hers went to the dogs, mine became chicken stuffing!! LOL”
Here’s another story for you about bread making, Marilyn.
In 1918, little Emily P. and her thirteen year old sister, Verna, started doing kitchen chores. Their mother had passed away so they had to cook for their father and six younger siblings. Nothing could be wasted.
Every day, the potatoes and meat were dutifully cooked. The bread was to be baked on Saturday. Emily and Verna pounded and punched the dough to no avail. It would not rise. Perhaps the flat dough should be left to rest.
Much later, the sisters checked on the dough. It was still as flat as a pancake. Emily and Verna knew their father would be home soon.
“What should we do?” moaned Verna.
“Bury it,” said Emily.
Time ticked by. Their father, after finishing his noonday meal, glanced out the kitchen window. Something out there caught his attention. A patch of soil seemed to q-u-i-v-e-r.
Mr. P stared. Now, the soil heaved.
The girls giggled nervously.
Grabbing his shovel, Mr. P headed outside. Emily and Verna followed slowly.
Mr. P jabbed. The soil was spongy. Dai Bozhi! It was dough. He looked around.
Emily and Verna hung their heads.
“We tried to make bread,” said Emily, “but the dough wouldn’t rise.”
“We worried that wasting anything would disappoint you,” said Verna.
Their father looked stern. But his eyes twinkled.
“Your mama put the dough to rise here, there, everywhere in the house,” he said. “But she never once thought of putting it in the garden.”