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2 THE RURAL VOICE
Carol Riemer
Back to the basics
Nothing gladdens the heart, nor
warms the country spirit like the
aroma of freshly baked bread, a
steaming crock of homemade soup
and the company of those who share
a passion for good food and
conversation.
That's what I
told my daughter,
as we donned our
aprons, early on a
Saturday
morning,
determined to
break out of the
midwinter
doldrums. To tell
the truth, I hadn't
baked bread in
quite a while. I
only knew that I
longed for some
really good, old-
fashioned, basic comfort food.
Besides, I was tired of Christmas
leftovers, the beans were all gone, I
had run out of things to do with
canned salmon and I just couldn't
look another sardine in the eye. Even
the bottled water I saved for
emergencies had somehow lost its
once virtuous appeal.
Down from the top shelf of the
bookcase came an old family
cookbook. I blew the dust from its
fading cover and carefully scanned
the yellowed pages. Ancient recipes
for Irish Soda Bread, English Muffins
and scores of scones from the rugged
Scottish highlands vied for my
tavour. while Italian loaves and
French baguettes took turns
competing with the hearty German
ryes and crusty kaiser rolls.
Despite reservations on my
daughter's part, I still savoured the
idea of sampling just a morsel of
sourdough, before going on to
explore the advantages of wholesome
wholewheat. The lure of herb and
garlic bread proved almost
irresistible. But, in the end, it was the
simple, yet classic, French
baguette that finally won out.
Time was needed to let the dough
rise, so we turned our attention to the
subject of soup. I remembered"that
homemade chicken soup had served
Old-fashioned
meal breaks
winter doldrums
as a traditional childhood remedy for
anything that ailed us, whether real or
imaginary. It was the perfect antidote
for the most virulent case of the
winter time blues. A variety of
vegetables added to our homemade
stock, a pinch of parsley and a dash
of sage always guaranteed a quick
recovery."
As my daughter and I prepared the
soup, my son returned from the wood
shed with a fresh supply of firewood,
while my husband finished sweeping
the chimney. A wave of frigid air
suddenly spilled through the open
kitchen door, as the two arrived,
eager to sit down to a hot lunch.
The dough, punched down and
shaped into loaves, was left to rise for
a second time. Soon, it would be
ready for the oven. Meanwhile, as the
soup slowly simmered away on the
back burner, I set the table,
employing all the warm ambiance of
a French country inn. Using the last
of our Christmas candles, I thought
that the gingham -lined bread baskets
and the stoneware soup crocks nicely
complemented our handwoven place
mats. A vase of dried flowers helped
to complete the perfect cozy setting.
All that was needed was some
interesting conversation. Harder to
come by than pizza delivery in the
country, it started out slowly.
Patiently, my daughter and I listened,
as my husband and son debated the
condition of the chimney, sized
up the stack of firewood left standing
in the shed and calculated the amount
of oil in the snow blower.
Then, without warning, the soup
suddenly disappeared and the bread
vanished without a trace. They all
went about their business and once
again, I was left to stare out the
kitchen window and ponder the
meaning of life.
With the candles extinguished and
the dishes soaking in the sink, things
quietly returned to normal.
Sometimes, getting back to basics
can foil even the best.of plans,
leaving you not only short of soup,
but entirely bereft of words.0
Carol Riemer is a freelance writer
who lives with her husband and two
children near Grand Valley, Ontario.