Life is Like a Bowl of Zwieback

Until 2 years ago I thought that zwieback (I pronounced it zoo-E-back)was the hard dry toast you purchase at the grocery story in baby blue packages with a smiling little cherub on the cover. I remember giving it to my babies when they were teething, and acting very unlike smiling little cherubs. It was the consistency of a two by four so that the little angels happily could chew on it for hours, never breaking off a single chunk large enough to choke on, before it turned to mush.

In the intervening years I went through a divorce and spent years alone. When my second husband and I married a couple of years ago, rescuing each other from loneliness, celibacy, and single parenthood, I learned some important things. The rock hard stuff in the store is not real zwieback, and it is pronounced swee-baac.

Real zwieback is a tradition dating back so many generations that no one remembers when it started. Fresh baked zwieback is the lightest, softest, sweetest dinner roll ever.

Some brilliant cook invented Zwieback long before I was born and bread machines were invented. My mother-in-law, Marlene, is famous for making the best zwieback on three continents. She is suffering from Alzheimer's, so a few months ago she and my father-in-law invited me to her house to make zwieback with her so that she could pass on treasured generational zwieback secrets. I knew I was in trouble the minute she began warming the utensils we were to use. Making zwieback like hers is a science, requiring precision.  I am a terrible scientist.

This Easter I am making zwieback alone for the first time. Slightly intimidated by Marlene's reputation, I glanced at the recipe, and googled "scald milk". The Cooking-for-Modern-Clueless-Idiots website said that scalding milk began back when milk came from cows instead of from grocery stores. Heating the milk to near boiling killed dangerous bacteria and the enzymes that kept dough from thickening. The website said that scalding is unnecessary now in the days of pasteurization.  Scalding already pasteurized milk is probably a step we take just because it has always been done this way. It is like the story my mother tells. A woman learned from her mother that she should trim the ends off a roast before putting it in the oven. After years of doing this, she asked why this step was necessary. Mother didn't know, so she asked her grandmother. The sage old woman answered. "I always did that because the roast wouldn't fit in my pan!" I scalded the milk anyway, just in case.

I finished the delicate zwieback-made-with-scalded-milk dough mixing it gently in a warm bowl. Getting the right consistency required using more than 16 cups of flour even though the recipe calls for only 4 - 8 cups. It was written down by a person determined to make sure that no one attempting to follow it could possibly succeed.

I gently tucked the finished dough into a pre-warmed bowl, covered it with a fresh towel, and left it to rise in peace and quiet. It grew large, light, and baby soft. The recipe said to let the dough rise to twice its original size then "punch it down".  I obeyed. Laying aside all the earlier gentleness I used the cooking skills I acquired in kickboxing class throwing undercuts and right hooks at my beloved dough. After knocking all the air out of it, I walked away. The ball of dough recovered from its shock, and gradually struggled back up to its former fluffy glory, only to be punched down again. Three times. I felt for the poor dough. I related to it. It couldn't see my perspective or know that the times of being uncovered and punched down are as crucial for preparing it for its delicious destiny as the times of warmth and comfort.

As the scent of baking zwieback fills my kitchen, I realize that God is like an old-style cook. Sometimes He puts us in warm sunny windows to grow in quiet comfort. Sometimes he lets life knock all the air out of us, then seems to walk away. He does it repeatedly, and He does it because he loves us. There is a delicious destiny ahead for us.


That's it. Gotta go take soft golden brown zwieback from the oven.


Beth


This post can also be seen on my other blog, doorinthewilderness.blogspot.com.

A Glimpse of the Sacred

The reverent among us possess excellent vision. They have trained themselves to see God's Spirit and his handiwork. They know the sacred when they see it, and the sacred is that in which God is found. With a finely tuned lens, there is much to see. Typically, we connect the sacred with holiness, righteousness, purity--and these are good associations--but we shouldn't miss other aspects of the sacred: God's love, light, meaning and goodness, the genius of human genomes, the beauty of an owl's whispering flight, the privilege of practicing mercy. Noticing God is noticing all of God that we can see, especially his holiness. (Greg Spencer, Westmont College Magazine, Fall 2010, p 14-15)

 I came across these words this morning. I needed them. Somehow, like misplacing my spiritual glasses, in the midst of life's bustle my vision gets blurry. God's spirit and his handiwork get fuzzy. Sometimes I overlook the sacred altogether, even if it is close by.

Mr. Spencer's words reminded me of the experience my husband and I had a few days ago shortly before dawn. We were in the bedroom of our suburban home when we heard the unmistakable hoot of an owl, very close. We tried to be silent as we moved our heavy wooden window shades to look for him. We finally spotted him, sitting at the peak of our neighbor's roof, a majestic outline against the pre-dawn sky. We whispered excitedly to each other, in awe. The huge bird sat motionless except for turning his head and making that unmistakable deep call. After a minute or two he disappeared silently into the black. We grinned at each other in the semi-darkness. Both of us delighted with the unexpected moment of awe, a glimpse of the sacred.