The Day Grandma Taught Me to Bake Bread

Every Saturday, Omar went to Grandma's house.

This Saturday, Omar knocked on Grandma's red door. Knock, knock, knock.

"Come in, my sunshine!" called Grandma.

Omar ran inside. Grandma was standing in the kitchen. She wore her purple headscarf and her flowery apron. There was a smudge of white flour right on the tip of her nose.

On the big wooden table sat a big blue bowl. Next to it was a bag of flour, a jug of water, a little dish of salt, and a tiny jar.

"Grandma," said Omar, "you have flour on your nose."

"Do I?" said Grandma, and she laughed. "That is because today is a special day. Today, we are going to bake bread."

Omar clapped his hands. "Bread!"

Omar loved bread. He loved bread with butter. He loved bread with honey. He loved dipping warm bread into Grandma's lentil soup. But he had never made bread before. Not even once.

Then they started.

Grandma poured the flour into the big blue bowl. Whoosh! A soft white cloud puffed up into the air. Omar sneezed. Achoo! Grandma laughed.

"Now the warm water," said Grandma. "Not hot. Not cold. Warm, like a bath."

Omar poured the water in slowly. Glug, glug, glug.

Grandma added a pinch of salt. Then she opened the tiny jar and added a spoonful of something brown and crumbly.

"What is that?" asked Omar.

"That is yeast," said Grandma. "It is a little bit of magic. It is what makes the bread grow big and fluffy. You will see."

She handed Omar a wooden spoon. "Now," she said, "we mix."

Omar stirred. Round and round. Round and round. The flour and the water swirled together.

Then Grandma said, "Now we use our hands."

Omar put his hands into the bowl. Squish!

The dough was sticky. Very sticky. It stuck to his fingers. It stuck to his palms. He tried to shake it off, and it stuck to the spoon. He tried to wipe it off, and it stuck to his apron. He scratched his arm, and it even stuck to his elbow!

Omar pulled his hands out of the bowl. They looked like two lumpy white mittens.

His face went red. His eyebrows went down.

"It is too messy," he said. "It is sticking everywhere. I am doing it wrong. I want to stop."

He held his gooey hands out in front of him and frowned.

Grandma did not frown. She did not say, "Oh dear." She just smiled a soft, kind smile.

"Do you know," she said, "my very first bread was messy too. I was about your age. I got dough on my hands, on my dress, and in my hair. My mother laughed and laughed. Then she showed me a secret."

"What secret?" asked Omar.

"Let me show you," said Grandma.

She sprinkled a handful of flour onto the wooden table. It looked like a little patch of snow. She sprinkled some flour on Omar's hands too. Right away, they felt less sticky.

Then she tipped the dough out onto the floury table.

"Watch," said Grandma. "We push. We fold. We turn."

She pushed the dough away from her with the heels of her hands. She folded it back over itself. Then she turned it a little bit.

"Push, fold, turn," said Grandma. "Push, fold, turn."

"Push, fold, turn," whispered Omar.

"Now you try," said Grandma.

Omar took a deep breath. He put his hands on the dough.

He pushed. He folded. He turned.

The dough stuck a little. Grandma sprinkled a little more flour.

He pushed. He folded. He turned.

The dough stuck a little less.

"Push, fold, turn," sang Grandma, like a song.

"Push, fold, turn," sang Omar, joining in.

Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.

Slowly, slowly, something changed. The lumpy, sticky dough grew smooth. It grew soft and stretchy. It stopped sticking to Omar's fingers. When he poked it, it bounced back, like a pillow.

"Grandma!" said Omar. "Look! It is not sticky anymore!"

"You did that," said Grandma. "You kept going."

Grandma rubbed a little oil inside the blue bowl. Omar placed the smooth round dough inside. Then Grandma covered it with a clean striped towel.

"Now what?" asked Omar.

"Now," said Grandma, "we wait."

"How long?"

"Until it grows twice as big."

So they waited.

They washed their hands. They read a book about a turtle who wanted to fly. They played a game of cards, and Omar won two times. They drank warm milk with a little honey.

Then Grandma said, "Shall we look?"

Omar lifted the towel very slowly.

The dough had grown! It was puffy and round. It was twice as big as before. It rose right up over the top of the bowl.

"It grew!" cried Omar. "It grew while we were playing!"

"That is the yeast," said Grandma, winking. "I told you it was magic."

They shaped the dough into a round loaf. Grandma let Omar make a pattern on top with a knife. He made a star. Then Grandma opened the oven, and in went the bread.

Soon, the whole house began to smell warm and wonderful. It smelled like a cozy blanket. It smelled like Saturday.

Omar sat in front of the oven and watched through the little glass window. The bread grew taller. It turned light brown. Then golden.

Ding! went the timer.

Grandma took out the bread with her big oven mitts. It was round and golden, with a star on top. When she tapped the bottom, it made a hollow sound. Tock, tock.

"That means it is ready," said Grandma.

They waited for it to cool, just a little. Then Grandma cut two thick, warm slices. Steam curled up from the middle. She spread butter on top, and it melted right in.

Omar took a bite.

It was soft inside and crunchy outside. It was warm and buttery. It was the best bread he had ever tasted in his whole life.

"Grandma," said Omar, with his mouth full. "I made this."

"You did," said Grandma, and she hugged him tight.

Omar looked at his hands. There was still a little bit of dough stuck under one fingernail. He smiled.

"Next Saturday," he said, "can we make bread again? I will not be scared of sticky fingers anymore."

Grandma laughed and wiped the flour off her nose.

"Next Saturday," she said. "It is a date."