white bread

I don't know exactly how old I was or the year that my grandparents moved from "up north" to that corner brick ranch on Giddings, but I do remember our Saturday afternoons spent there in the late 80s.

After lunch Sarah, Joel and I would get in the car with Dad and make the cross-town journey to see Grandma and Grandpa M. (Mom stayed home. And now, being a mother myself, I completely understand why!) As our car turned and made it's way down my grandparents' street, I'd always look to see if my aunt, uncle and cousins had arrived. They, too, were a part of this Saturday afternoon tradition.

We'd enter through the breezeway and make our way into the warm kitchen on the back of the house where the scent of homemade bread greeted us. A quick glance to the countertop showed several loaves of freshly baked bread, lined up and covered with towels. And a peek into the fridge always revealed cold cans of Faygo.

Upon arrival, the necessary tools and accompaniments were put out: a perfectly clean dish holding room temperature butter, a jar of creamy peanut butter, several knives, paper plates and napkins. We were ready to dig in.

If memory serves me, I think it was Grandpa who most often sliced the bread, followed in a close second by Grandma. Inexperienced slicers were NOT allowed to touch, smoosh or mangle the heavenly loaves. The repercussion? Grandma's irritation verbalized in a tiny little huff, barely audible, but followed by a "Well, Carl..." Enough said.

Peanut butter always adorned my bread. And most often, I'd reach for root beer to wash it down. Sometimes I would join the adults around the kitchen table. My dad and his brother were great at tossing quick humor back and forth, and being in the company of all the laughter was invigorating, even if much of the content was over my head. Usually, though, I'd head down to the basement where, with my siblings and cousins, we'd watch the enormous console television controlled by the corded white box that sat on the coffee table. Getting a place to sit on the gold couch was a priority; on either end near the two-tiered side tables, even better.

After a couple hours of hanging out, we'd say our goodbyes and make our way home where Mom would be waiting in the kitchen, getting things around for dinner. We'd pull in the garage and open the door to a brand new set of scents.

Those simple Saturday afternoons at my grandparents were memorable. It was a come-as-you-are, no expectations kind of visit. If you could make it? Great. If not? See you next time. There was always a next time.

So why the trip down memory lane today? Bread making and baking was our recent craft at MOPS, and an extra bag of ingredients was sent home with me. So this morning I followed suit. And by early afternoon, that familiar scent filled the house. Scott, Morgan and I were enjoying slices of warm bread with peanut butter. We sat at the kitchen table, and all I could do was think of my grandparents.

Cousins: Celebrating a birthday at the house on Giddings

Pictured are Sarah, Amy, Kevin, me, Joel