Stones for Bread

by Parrish, Christa

  “Eww, what is that?” Cecelia asks.

  “Pumpernickel dough,” I tell her.

  “Does it have nickels in it?”

  “Nope. It has caraway seeds and onions and coffee.” I look at Seamus. “Actually, it sounds a lot like something you’d eat for breakfast.”

  “Ha, ha,” he says, but I know he likes that I’ve taken the time to tease him. A role reversal. I’m the boy who ties a little girl’s braids together when he has a crush on her. He’s the girl telling all her friends the reason some guy just has to be interested, because he poked her in the ribs when she was taking her books from her locker and gave her an extra chocolate milk carton at lunch.

  “It sounds so yucky,” Cecelia said. “Who would come up with something like that?”

  “Well, the Germans.”

  Suddenly, the screen door bangs shut and another voice speaks. “And have you told your young friend what the name literally means?” It’s one I recognize and can’t place, until I look up and see Jonathan Scott standing in my kitchen. Still, I can’t speak. Apparently, neither can the others. Tee and Rebekah stop their chopping, and Seamus’s winter beard—almost full, curling from cheekbones to mid-neck—doesn’t hide the greenish cast that’s come over him.

  “Those Germans have quite the sense of humor,” Jonathan continues. “Nickel is the word for sprite.”

  “What’s that?” Cecelia asks.

  “It’s like a fairy, but one who makes great mischief.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Pumpern means . . . well, I’m afraid I’ll have to whisper it in your ear.”

  And he bends down to Cecelia. His mouth moves, and she begins giggling, little snorts punctuating her laughter. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I manage, knowing full well what he’s told her. Pumpern is the gas the bread tends to create in the intestines. I shake my head, wipe my hands on a towel. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, let me tell you,” he says, and it’s his television voice, the smooth, perfectly styled Jonathan Scott ready for crowd and camera. “I woke this morning and thought, It’s a gorgeous autumn day. I think I’ll get out of the city and drive somewhere I can see the leaves turning and buy some real maple sugar candy. Wouldn’t Vermont be the perfect place to do so? And while I was driving, I remembered seeing an episode of some cooking show on the Good Food Channel about a little bakery in Billingston that has the best bread in the area, so I figured I’d stop in and see what all the fuss was about.”

  “I saw that show too,” Cecelia says, oblivious to his joking. “I was even on it.”

  Jonathan snaps his fingers and points at her, flicking the end of her nose. “And you were amazing. Now, if only—”

  “Tee,” Gretchen calls, pushing through the kitchen door, staring down at the order pad in her hand. “There’s a woman out there who wants to know if your soup has—” She sees Jonathan. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not quite sure anymore,” he tells her, “since everyone seems to be shocked and dismayed at my appearance.”

  “Maybe shocked, that’s for sure.” Gretchen tilts her head, a coy smile on her lips. “But never dismayed.”

  Tee taps her spoon against the rim of a pot. Loudly. “You have question for the customer?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. She wants to know if the lemon barley soup has any dairy in it. You know, milk, cream, butter.”

  “I know dairy,” Tee snaps. “I milk the cows with these hands before you are born in the earth. I beat butter up and down. There is no sticks in box to buy in store, to make easiest for you. None. Nixto.” She says all this while making charade-like motions with her hands, squeezing and yanking invisible teats, churning invisible cream, chopping the air with each negative word.

  Gretchen remains unfazed. “So, is there dairy or not?”

  “Nei,” Tee says, turning away.

  “That’s no,” I say.

  “I got that.” Gretchen gives a wiggly-finger wave to Jonathan and, with exaggerated hip movement, leaves the kitchen.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t get to meet your . . . uh . . . charming cook the last time I was here,” Jonathan says, and Tee shuffles pot lids with much clanging and growling.

  I take a deep breath. “Jonathan, really. I am surprised to see you. But I’m assuming you must be here for a reason. So, can I help you with something?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you had a little time to talk.” He looks around at the others. “Privately.”

  Seamus’s hands tighten.

  “Okay, sure. We’re closing soon anyway. How long do you think it will take?”

  “Awhile.”

  I turn to Seamus, touch the back of his wrist; the sleeves of his work shirt are rolled and his hair is against my fingers. I have brushed his arm before, I must have, but in the heat of the crowded room and dying wood fire and Jonathan’s presence, it feels bristly and untamed. “I guess, then, I’ll see you two tomorrow, after school?”

  He nods, and then leans in and kisses my cheek. “Call me later.”

  I stand there, stunned, my hand pressed to my face, the scraggy texture of his beard lingering on my skin. He’s never kissed me. He’s never told me to call him; I hear it as a command, somewhat casual but edged with possession. He’s marking his territory.

  He and Cecelia go, and I offer Jonathan a stool at the kitchen’s proofing table. Jonathan says, “I was hoping for more privacy than that.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “We close in ten minutes. Then we can sit in the café area.”

  “Are all your employees gone at that point?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I should come back when they are.”

  “Well, Gretchen’s the last to leave at five.” I slip the elastic band from my hair, pluck out the barrettes keeping my unruly bangs in place. “We could go upstairs, I suppose.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I need to be back in the city for tomorrow, and the earlier I can leave, the better.”

  I open the kitchen door a crack. No customers in the bakehouse. Gretchen closes out the register and Ellie sweeps the floor. Jonathan follows me outside and up the stairs to the apartment. “Have a seat,” I say, motioning to the kitchen table. “Can I get you something to drink? I can make coffee or tea. And there’s water or orange juice.”

  “No, thank you, though.”

  Sitting across from him, I rub the backs of my hands over my thighs, crumbs of dried pumpernickel dough powdering my dark jeans. “I have to admit, you’re making me nervous. I can’t imagine why you’d be here, except maybe to tell me I don’t get to keep the prize money. Though I suppose you’d have a lawyer call me for that.”

  “Liesl, relax.” He laughs. “And there’s nothing to be nervous about. I do have news, but it’s the kind of news I thought best delivered in person. The network was very impressed with your episode.” He squints at me. “You did watch it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, good. I wouldn’t put it past you to skip it. What did you think?”

  “Patrice was right about the editing. I didn’t look like a complete imbecile.”

  “You looked fantastic. The camera loves you. I’m serious. You’re a natural.”

  I snicker. “I don’t need flattery. I would just like you to tell me what this is all about.”

  “It’s not flattery and that is what it’s all about. When I saw the show, I was really, really blown away. As were the powers that be. So I pitched an idea to them, and they loved it. Now it’s up to you.”

  “What idea?”

  Jonathan holds up his open palm and drags it through the air, as if highlighting his next words. “Bread Without Boundaries. You. Me. Traveling the world, finding the best bread, and teaching viewers how to make it.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Your own show, Liesl. On the Good Food Channel. With me.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Dead serious here. The
network wants you. All you need to do is say yes.”

  “Jonathan, come on. Even if what you say is true, I have my bakehouse. I can’t leave it.”

  “No one is asking you to. The filming schedule would only be three months out of the year, with travel and some work back in the New York studios. There may be some other appearance obligations, but not many. You’d have eight months, at least, here at the bakery.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t even consider this right now. I hardly believe you’re telling the truth.”

  “I am,” he says. “In a few days you’ll get a package with all the details—contract, itinerary, information on the format of the show, salary, expectations—you name it. Take your time. Read through it all. Have someone look at everything with you. Talk to people. Whatever you need to do. My number will be in there too. You can call at any time.”

  “You really are serious.”

  “I am.”

  Settling back in my chair, I brush the rye dust from my legs. My pumpernickel dough waits for me, uncovered and half-kneaded downstairs. I wish my hands were in it now, my umbilicus to the familiar. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know. Trust me.”

  “How long do I have to decide?”

  “About eight weeks. We’ll begin production in January in order for a September premiere.” He stands. “So, unless you’ll agree to grab a bite with me before I make the long trek back to the big, bad city, I’m on my way.”

  “I can’t eat. I’m sorry.”

  “Understand.” He offers me his hand, manicured, slim-fingered, much smaller than Seamus’s, scalier than I remember. I shake it. “Hope to hear from you soon.”

  I don’t move to show him out, and he doesn’t expect it, leaving on his own. My stomach pitches; I wrap my arms low across my belly, taking hold of my hip bones and folding forward until my insides are too compressed to move on their own and the nausea passes. I straighten and the blood pours from my face back into the rest of me. This is what an hourglass feels like, all its sand dripping away and powerless to stop it. I can’t stay here, though. There is bread to be made. Once in the kitchen again, they all look at me—Tee, Gretchen, Rebekah—but do not ask. I knead my dark rye dough and, counting each stroke, each turn, try to forget everything else.

  Pumpernickel Onion Sourdough Bread

  Makes one large or two smaller loaves

  LIESL’S NOTES :

  Baker’s ratios can be confusing at times. In general, it is the ratio of liquid ingredients to flour. This recipe calls for a 100% hydration starter, which means there are equal parts water and flour. The starter on page 45 is a 100% hydration starter. If baking this recipe with a starter of an unknown ratio, the proper hydration can easily be obtained by taking 112 grams (approximately ½ cup by volume) of the “old” starter and mixing it with 225 grams of water (approximately 1 cup) and 225 grams of flour (approximately 2 cups). Using a mixture of wheat and rye flour will enhance the pumpernickel flavor. Continue feeding the starter every 12 hours until it doubles in size; with a healthy, active starter, this may only take one or two feedings.

  INGREDIENTS :

  220 grams (1 cup) hot black coffee (water can be used, if necessary)

  18 grams (2 tablespoons) caraway seeds

  240 grams (2 cups) pumpernickel flour (pumpernickel flour is coarse-ground rye meal containing the germ and bran; rye flour, organic if possible, may be substituted)

  280 grams (1⅓ cups) wild yeast starter, 100% hydration

  60 grams (½ cup) chopped onions

  18 grams (2 tablespoons) vegetable oil

  12 grams (2 teaspoons) salt

  85 grams (¼ cup) dark, unsulphured molasses (buckwheat honey may be substituted, or any honey if necessary)

  120 grams (1 cup) whole wheat flour, organic if possible

  360 to 480 grams (3 to 4 cups) divided, bread flour or all-purpose flour, organic if possible

  60 grams (¼ cup) water

  EQUIPMENT :

  kitchen scale (optional but recommended)

  2 large glass or ceramic mixing bowls

  wooden spoon

  plastic wrap or clean kitchen towel

  stand mixer with paddle attachment and dough hook (optional)

  olive oil

  parchment paper proofing basket (also known as a banneton or brotform, optional)

  baking or pizza stone

  broiler pan

  serrated knife or baker’s lame

  baking thermometer (optional)

  DO AHEAD

  To prepare the sponge, pour the hot coffee over the caraway seeds. Allow the seeds to soak while the coffee cools. Once the coffee is room temperature, add the pumpernickel flour, wild yeast starter, and onions. Stir until well combined. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and allow the sponge to ferment for at least 5 hours, or overnight. The longer it stands, the more “sour” the bread will taste.

  ON BAKING DAY

  To make the dough, stir the oil, salt, and molasses into the sponge. Stir in the flour ½ cup at a time until the dough is a consistency that can be kneaded (about 360 to 420 grams, or 3 to 3½ cups), then allow the dough to stand for 20 minutes. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 5 minutes, adding only enough more flour or water to keep it from being too sticky. A dough with rye flour will never lose its tacky feel; knead it until pieces of dough no longer adhere to your hands once you remove them. If using a stand mixer, combine all the ingredients using a paddle attachment, adding the flour ½ cup at a time, until a shaggy ball has formed. Switch to a dough hook and mix for 4 to 5 minutes on low speed, adding more flour if the dough seems too wet, or a little water if all the flour is not incorporated.

  Lightly grease a ceramic or glass bowl with oil. Place the dough in the bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Allow the dough to rise until it is 1½ times its origanal size, approximately 2 to 4 hours.

  Gently shape the dough into one large or two smaller freeform boules, and place them on a sheet of parchment paper sprinkled with pumpernickel flour. Or shape the dough into loaves and place in a large 10 x 5-inch bread pan or two 8½ x 4½-inch pans. A brotform may also be used. Cover the loaves with a damp kitchen towel or lightly oiled plastic wrap. Let rise again until 1½ times its original size, approximately 1½ to 2 hours.

  Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit with the baking stone on the middle shelf and broiler pan on the bottom shelf (if the bread is being baked in loaf pans, there is no need for a baking stone). Transfer the loaves to the oven. The free-form boules can be kept on the parchment paper and set on the baking stone. If using a proofing basket, turn the dough out of the basket directly onto the stone. Score the dough with a serrated knife or baker’s lame. Add 1 cup of water to the broiler pan and close the oven door. Bake for approximately 35 to 45 minutes, or until the bread reaches an internal temperature of 195 degrees Fahrenheit. If using loaf pans, remove the bread from them. Allow all loaves to cool for at least an hour before slicing.

  The next afternoon Cecelia doesn’t get off the bus. I hear the familiar rumble, wait for the trailing song of the breaks and a flash of yellow-orange through the window. But the bus doesn’t slow; it’s already turning the corner by the time I’m standing on the sidewalk, calling, “Wait,” and waving both arms above my head.

  Back inside, I shuffle through phone numbers and find Seamus’s, calling his cellular phone first. Four rings and then voice mail. “Could you call me as soon as you get this message? It’s about Cecelia. And important.” I try the home number, but there’s no answer there either. I don’t leave a message when the machine clicks on.

  “What’s wrong?” Gretchen asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Cecelia wasn’t on the bus.”

  “Did you call Seamus?”

  I nod. “He didn’t pick up.”

  “Call the school.”

  I find that number in the phone book. The receptionist tells me Seamus picked up Cecelia at dismissal.


  “Thank God,” I say, the adrenaline diffusing from the center of my body, spreading to my limbs, pooling in my fingers and toes. I curl my feet inside my shoes, repeatedly open and close my hands. I’ve never panicked like this before. It’s the terror of mothers in department stores and amusement parks, when they turn and find their child gone, every kind of nightmare scenario in their heads before they discover the girl hidden between the dresses on a clothing rack, or the boy staring at a game in the arcade he’s already been told he can’t play. Maternal is not a word I’ve ever used to describe myself—nor anyone else—but Cecelia has managed to become more than a kid I watch after school. I know this already, but admitting things . . . not something I do well.

  The phone rings. It’s Seamus. “I have her.”

  “I know. I talked to the school.” The fear shifts to anger. “Why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t coming today?”

  “I texted Jude this morning and asked him to let you know.”

  “He’s seventeen. Of course he’s not going to remember.”

  A pause. “I’m sorry,” Seamus says.

  “Yeah. Okay. I was just worried.” I take a deep breath too. “So, I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  Another silence, this one long enough to have me shifting the receiver from one ear to another, something to do to fill the awkwardness between us. Finally, he says, “I think we might have intruded on you long enough.” He’s pulling away and taking Cecelia with him.

  I haven’t the energy to argue, all rinsed out of me from the bus incident. And the anger creeps back in. He’s doing this because of yesterday, because Jonathan Scott showed up here.

  He’s sulking.

  “Fine, then,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you Sunday at church.”

  It’s not fine, though. I hang up and emptiness mingles with the anger. I want Cecelia here. She’s come to belong to this odd, growing Wild Rise family of immigrants, high school dropouts, nerdy engineers, flighty artists, fundamentalist farm girls, and everyone else. Seamus too, if I’m honest. I miss both of them.