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Year Eleven
Planning
After work I take Morgen to the library. I set her up in the children’s area, and I go through the aisles, pulling books on gardening and preserving and soap making off the shelves. Within half an hour I have twelve books to check out, and they all look like they could be an introduction to a new fulfilling endeavor.
Anything you want, I muse, as I flip through the books, anything at all can be learned. If you have the interest and the time, there’s enough information available on any subject to become an expert on it.
“Imagine growing our own food!” I say when Scott comes into the living room after tucking Morgen into bed. “Wouldn’t that just be so cool?”
“A lot cheaper than buying it at the grocery store here. And fresher.”
“But really, it’s the lifestyle of it,” I tell him. “That’s what this book calls it: a lifestyle. It’s about being grounded, and real, and about being self-sufficient. People are too dependent on the system to fill their needs. If you can fill your own needs, if you can sustain yourself, then you can be truly free.”
“I love the idea of being self-sufficient.”
There’s something truly fulfilling and satisfying, I imagine, about the gardening process. It would require patience, hard-work, and diligence. But it would be worth it.
“Growing your own food is real,” I say. “Same with preserving food. And baking bread. Anything where you’re more connected to what you're consuming.”
“Hunting?” Scott asks. He used to hunt before he met me, and I’ve always had a problem with it. But now, yes, I can see the parallel. If you eat meat, hunting is a way to connect with the reality of it.
“Yes. Even hunting.”
Scott smiles.
“But I prefer baking!” So that’s what I’ll do. I picture it as I read about kneading and shaping the perfect loaves. I choose my recipes and make a list of the ingredients I’ll need. I’m going to bake the best, most wholesome and satisfying bread we’ve ever tasted, I decide, and it will nourish us and fill our cabin with the smell of comfort. I’ll be known around town as the woman who lives in the Y2K cabin and works at the radio station and bakes bread. When I get really good at it, I’ll go talk to the whole foods co-op and see if they’ll sell it for me. I’ll charge a reasonable price so that it’ll be both affordable and nourishing. A win-win.
On Sunday, I try my first loaf. I study the directions and meticulously measure each and every ingredient down to the grain. I knead the dough on the floured countertop, putting my whole body into the motions, giving it my all. I form the loaf, cover it with a fresh, old fashioned tea towel, and let it sit in the “warm place” I found on top of the fridge for the final step. As it bakes in the pre-heated oven, the sweet yeast aroma fills the whole cabin. I pull it out and turn it on to the cooling rack, admiring the golden brown crust.
But when we cut into it, it’s dense and the center is doughy. The flavor is yeasty, and no one wants a second piece. It’s hard not to be disappointed, even though all the baking books warn that it takes a few tries.
For me, it actually takes more than a few tries. I produce three more dense and doughy loaves, two that Scott compliments as “an improvement,” and then three that are less dense but still a bit yeasty. It isn’t until my umpteenth try that I bake the bread I’ve been hoping for: hearty, flavorful, light, and delicious. I don’t think I did anything different, but somehow I’ve mastered it. It seems almost like the failed attempts were somehow a test to see if I’m diligent enough to keep with it. Now I’ve passed the test. Now I can bake bread! I’ve always bought my bread, or used a bread machine. But this is real bread-baking, and I’m doing it. It’s a very satisfying feeling.
Scott makes soup to go along with it. He chops carrots and celery, zucchini and cauliflower, and then uses the scraps to boil into a stock. As it simmers, I walk through the cabin, straightening and contemplating. The living room is lightly decorated with books, candles, and Morgen’s hand-drawn pictures. I pull a photo album from the shelf and flip through the candid shots that tell the story of our years together: our marriage, Scott’s graduation, our different apartments and houses, my degrees, Morgen. The pictures capture moment after moment of Morgen’s happiness.
She has been happy, I realize, despite not having what many other children in this country have. Or perhaps because of it. She’s been happy without TV, or plastic dolls, or trips to Disneyland. She’s been happy with books and crayons and walks outside. She’s been happy with our love and our time, and I can’t imagine that TV or plastic Made in China toys would have improved anything. I smile to myself as I put the photo album back on the shelf.
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