image from pinterest.com
Breaking Bread
“We cannot curse the sky if we stay and break
bread with the boys, while men full of mountains
and the moon await with their stories.”
--from Butterflies Rising.
Most memories for me
are triggered through
olfactory means.
The incredible smell
of baking bread
takes me back
to my mother’s
Baking Day--
Tuesdays.
Every week
she baked bread,
and always timed
a fresh loaf
to be pulled out of the oven
just as we got home
from school.
We were greeted
with this freshly baked
steaming loaf, sitting
on a colorful checkerboard
linen kitchen towel,
surrounded by real butter,
and several kinds of jam.
We were allowed to
tear off hot ragged pieces
of bread, and slather them
with strawberry, grape, or
orange marmalade jam,
mixed with creamery butter,
and wolf it down.
Heavenly memory, for sure,
but being a dumb kid,
I was embarrassed
by the rough-cut slices
of crumbly homemade bread
on my school sandwiches,
and I would trade my friends
my sandwich for anything
on Wonder Bread.
My mother died young,
and it didn’t take very long
to begin missing those
Home-Baked Tuesdays.
Glenn Buttkus
Posted over on d'Verse Poet's Pub
14 comments:
what an evocative poem - delicious memories of mother and bread - then sadness - what a loss to the boy who wanted perfect bread for school
This is incredibly poignant, Glenn. I am so sorry to hear that your mum passed away young and offer my condolences. This poem is a treasure trove of memories, I can truly visualize that "freshly baked steaming bread," sitting on a colorful checkerboard. 💝💝
Reminds me so of the bread my mother used to bake, how the house filled so with the scent & the rough cuts slathered with butter and rhubarb jam. More perfect than host. And memory is how we keep those we've lost. - B
Wonderful imagery! Yum!
This is very warm and cuddly brother, touched my heart. Damned enjoyable bit of writing! Those sandwiches must have been wonderful. No warm baked memories for me today. Lost another friend last week. Put me in a blue mood.
Fresh hot buttered bread -- what a memory.
“We were allowed to
tear off hot ragged pieces
of bread, and slather them
with strawberry, grape, or
orange marmalade jam,
mixed with creamery butter,
and wolf it down.” ... I am drooling.
“I was embarrassed
by the rough-cut slices” ... Sounds about right. Kids are just that way.
The last stanza hurts my heart.
This is such a wonderful poem Glenn! I can smell the fresh bread baking and taste the salty homemade butter on the bread Smell and taste sticks with us forever. Well dine.
Nothing beats the smell of home-baked bread! And a real sense of not appreciating what we have until its gone in those final lines.
My daughter accused me of giving her "geeky" packed lunches - but she's grown up now and really appreciates good food, so it obviously worked! There's a reason why supermarkets pipe the smell of fresh bread round the store - it's irresistable, and you've sandwiched it up with a delicious memory and a sprinkling of poignancy. It's an irresistable poem.
That's really sad, Glenn :( (beautiful, of course, but sad...)
Yours,
David
What a spectacular memory Glenn. My mother didn't bake much regular bread, but there were times that the smell of hot gingerbread greeted me when I cam home. And gingerbread with butter is outstanding!
And think of the children today who have never and likely will never smell or taste home-made bread! I could fairly smell it aws I read your words!
Food and where it comes from holds powerful memories. Happy and sad, thanks for sharing this evocative memory of yours. I think there will be something similar in most of us.
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