Mommies Knead Love: reflects on nature and nurture as a tribute to Mother’s Day
by Elizabeth Anna Samudio
“Mommy, I’m bored. Can we make a play cake?”
I love to hear my son call the dough we roll out a play cake. Whether we’re kneading bread dough, cutting cookie dough, or rolling out pie dough—it’s all play to him. With little assistance, my four-year-old gathers the needed kitchen tools while I put the necessary ingredients on the counter. Isaiah eagerly pushes his stool to the counter and waits for me to pour the grain in the wheat grinder.
“Can I turn it on now?” he says with his chubby little finger on the back switch.
“Yes.” Together we watch the machine suck the grain and pulverize it to powder. As the last kernels swirl downward, Isaiah knows to turn off the machine.
“It sounds like a jet landing—rrruuuuuum,” he growls.
This is a process I guard myself from hurrying. I learned from my older sons, baking or cooking is not about the end result—rather, it’s a time to nurture. The dough Isaiah and I squeeze between our fingers—like the time we spend together preparing substance—is also a necessary ingredient to knead into a family.
Isaiah scoops some white flour out of a sack with a hand swifter and powders the countertops as well as us.
“Whoops!”
I can’t help but smile. “That’s all right.” I gently dust off his nose so he can breathe. I plop the pie dough on the dusted counter.
“Mamma, let me do it! Let me do . . . “
“I will. Just let me get started.”
He clenches the wooden handles on the rolling pin and presses down with all his might. Grunting, he rolls the pin across the dough. Even though my grandmother taught me to avoid over-working the dough, I allow my son to continue. I am tempted to finish it on my own to prevent the crust from becoming tough. But instead, I place my hands on my son’s small, soft hands. “No, no. Not so hard. Start in the middle and work your way out,” I say, guiding his path.
“I can do it. I can do it.” Isaiah lifts the roller and starts from the middle of the lumpy mound, smoothing it out.
In my voice I hear my mother and her mother. “Good job. Beautiful.”
There rarely is time I spend in my kitchen that I’m not reminded of the two women who seasoned my life with an appreciation of good food.
I roll the thin elastic dough around the rolling pin. I carefully unroll it into a pie dish. With anticipation, Isaiah watches me cut off the excess dough. He knows the remains are up for grabs. I abandon the thought of a having a pretty scalloped edge, as my son’s hands intermingle with mine, pinching the circumference of the pie dough. Looking down, I see my mother and my grandmother’s hands—not only making the pies, but also picking the berries to fill them .
Toward the end of each Summer, my grandmother, mother, brother, and I go blackberry picking. We usually gather the fruit on a hot day—hot for the Pacific Northwest. The sun bathes the berries along the hillside and fills the air with a lush aroma. Even though the wild vines cover the slope like the veins in old ceramic tile, I never can fill my container to the brim.
Jaime, my older brother, picks alongside me, and with his competitive nature declares, “I can fill my pail faster than you can!” My hands aren’t as graceful as his, and the thorns that pierce into my tender fingers are just cause to drop out of the race.
Nearby, under the shade of cedar and fir trees, I see Himalayas—a larger, wild blackberry. Lured by their abundance and ease to pick, I pop several into my mouth and enjoy the sweet, earthy juice. “Mom,” I call, “Why can’t we pick these? They’re huge! It won’t take as long.”
Without breaking stride, she answers, “Elizabeth, they are fine for eating. I’ve explained to your before—they’re too watery and seedy for making good pies.”
“Aww—can’t we just add some?”
“Elizabeth, dear,” Gramma says, “You heard your mom—not for pies.”
Neither of the women is depending on my gathering skills. Before the morning is over, they both have several containers filled to the brim.
Once we return home, my mother boils the berries in large, stainless-steel pots. I help skim the foam off the top of the mixture, filling a large Pyrex bowl with dollops of purple foam and bits of fruit. The syrup later will be served over vanilla ice cream. The kitchen smells of the outdoors sweetened with sugar, like the essence of the two women I love most.
Steaming jars of wild blackberry jam covers the counter of my mom’s kitchen. Hot wax is poured on them to seal, and the sun beaming in the window sparkles through the filled jars, casting a blanket of contentment over a fruitful day’s work .
Isaiah rolls out the remaining dough. The reduced size lends itself to mastery. He picks it up as if it was blue play dough and smashes it between his palms. He repeats this exercise several times, until finally he is content with a smooth, dried-out play cake.
“Mamma, can I put the cinnamon and sugar on?”
“Um hum.” I know to help with the sweet part. The step I most love to watch is cutting the dough with a gingerbread man. It may be in seeing Isaiah I see myself in my grandmother’s kitchen, putting a cookie sheet of gingerbread men made out of pie dough into the oven .
Isaiah now has grown into a strapping thirteen-year-old young man. Our “play cake” time has turned into reviewing recipes, gathering fresh foods, and preparing special meals together. And it’s been many years since I’ve traipsed through the countryside in search of the perfect berries with my mother and my grandmother. Still, when all of us get together throughout the year, we spend plenty of time in the kitchen and at the table.
After all, mommies knead love.