Surette Family

I was on the phone with my Mom last week and I mentioned I was disappointed that I did not know any of my neighbors. This summer when my family moved-in no one came with cookies or even to say "Hello." I live in a town home community so there is not maintenance or yard work to do outside our homes. With the exception of a few families with small children, who need time outdoors in order to survive, I don't see people outside of their homes or cars. It often feels like when people pull into their garage at the end of the day they close the door as quickly as possible to avoid contact with the apron-sporting mom playing soccer with her two boogery toddlers. My mother said something like "things aren't the way they used to be." It's a phrase I hear all the time but I was bothered by her words because she didn't say them in a wistful way like my Grandmother, Mom said it as a statement of fact, as though I should know better. I don't know what the difference is but it made me sad, as if that was it; my 55 year-old angel mother had given up, humanity had turned a corner and there was no going back.

I'm not trying to save my Mom or prove all the 55 plus-ers wrong. I'm not sticking it to my anti-social neighbors. I don't believe that everything in 1950 (or 1850) was better than 2010 but I am going to try and find a few things that were.

Maybe I'll start with a no-brainer; 2010 bread vs. real bread. Can anyone other than the carb-obsessed say no to fresh, warm bread? I've experimented with homemade bread before and it is not nearly as difficult as I imagined. The downside is that it takes a lot of flour to make a loaf of bread. When I buy nice bread flour or expensive wheat flour I end up frustrated if my loaf turns out too dense or crumbly or otherwise less-than-perfect because, while my family still eats it, I feel like those quality ingredients were wasted on an inferior product. I've used recipes from my cookbooks and learned that cookbooks should definitely remain a thing of the past. Unless you inherit your mother's cookbooks with notes penciled in every margin annotating proper adaptations, using a cookbook recipe is more like conducting a kitchen experiment than having a culinary experience. With two energetic, attention-hungry children and a mountain of laundry, I don't have time for experiments. The internet - which did not exist in 1950 - is an excellent source for recipes. In under five minutes I can search for a recipe based on ingredients I have at home, narrow my selection based on a rating system and select the perfect recipe after reading reviews submitted by hundreds of amateur cooks like myself. Who needs Julia Child?

Proven recipe in-hand, sipping my daily Coke, and serenaded by some of my favorite music; I start work while the kids are napping. This basic loaf is beefed up with some oatmeal and whole wheat and sweetened with honey and brown sugar. As the ingredients mix I can tell that this is going to be a good one. The dough has to rise twice but I can get a lot done during that time. By the time the loaves hit the oven dinner is on the table. Sweet smells fill the house while we eat and then enjoy some family time in our living room.

I timed the loaves so they could be delivered and enjoyed hot when my neighbors arrive home from work. I haven't heard or seen them come home yet but the kids are anxious to get outside so we put on shoes and head for the neighbor's front door. No answer. Okay, next neighbor. No answer. The kids kick a ball around as dusk sets in. It's getting close to bed time when our closest neighbors pull into their garage. Having little children is great because it takes the awkwardness out of introductions. With no restraint they charge over, nearly but not quite into the neighbor's garage. All I have to do is play the motherly role of gathering my chicks. They aren't close enough to be rude but too close for us all to avoid talking. Introductions are made. My daughter hands over the still-warm bread. I learn that my neighbor is a single, working mom with four older kids who all play after-school sports. She is happy and radiant through all this chaos. I realize that we probably haven't met because I am in my robe watching TV and my children are asleep by the time she arrives home at night. I'm glad we met. I find myself thinking of ways I can be a friend to this Mom who's pulled in many directions each day. Maybe she's pleased we met too and will think of me next time she needs some eggs or a break.

At ten o'clock I finally brake down and slice into the second, undelivered loaf. Maybe my other neighbor is a traveling salesman. The bread is soft and elastic. I spread on a thick layer of apple butter and as bite into it I wonder if I will have to make bread all week before I meet the salesman. Maybe the whole street will get fresh bread. Yum. That would be okay.