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.
