Hello from my apartment with a slice of brown bread stacked high with peanut butter and a cup of espresso. I’ve declared October 3rd as Brown Bread Day, and this is how I celebrate. “Brown Bread?” you say. Glad you asked…
It’s my grandmother’s recipe—a sweet raisin bread baked in a can or jar for a unique round shape.
The story goes that Grandma inherited the recipe from her mother-in-law in 1957 when she married Grandpa and faithfully baked a batch (which makes six to seven loaves!) every five days since. It was a feature of just about every family memory: brown bread for breakfast, brown bread for snack, brown bread for dessert, and brown bread as Christmas gifts.
Grandpa would go out fishing early in the morning before work, and he would bring a Thermos of hot water and brown bread of course. When my Uncle Paul was little, he told Grandma he was going to run away from home, so she packed a loaf of brown bread for him. He walked across the street, ate a slice, and came home.
So naturally, I ate plenty of brown bread growing up, but the first time I ever baked it was three years ago today with my grandmother as she was dying.
It was late September when I got a call from my dad. “We’re at the hospital with Grandma again. It’s not looking good.” His voice was calm but sad. It had been months of hospital visits and doctor appointments. “They’re sending her home on Hospice,” he said. “She probably only has a few days left. Everyone’s driving over to her house now.”
So we packed our bags and drove two hours to her small gray house, the same one my dad grew up in. Vehicles of relatives filled her driveway and spilled out onto the street. Inside, shoes were sprawled throughout the entryway. Just like Christmas.
It had been years since we were able to all fit in her house for a holiday. But back then, the kitchen table would be overflowing with treats, the living room bursting at the seams with a long table enough for the entire family to sit and share a meal. The house was small, but there was always room for a neighbor or friend to join for the holiday.
That’s not why we were here today, and as I rounded the corner, I took a deep breath not knowing what to expect from a room holding a dying loved one.
Around the corner, I saw smiling faces, laughter, and teary eyes. I saw Grandma sitting straight up in her wheelchair, laughing and talking with her kids and grandkids. Her joy was contagious, and her eyes lit up when she saw me. Nothing made her happier than having all the family together. We hugged, chatted.
That evening, the large crowd dispersed and small groups of us took shifts caring for her. One afternoon I went to Grandma, “Would it be okay if I make some brown bread?” I was sure the recipe and all the ingredients would be in her kitchen. “I suppose,” she said cautiously. My grandmother, until her final day, liked things to be done right, so she insisted on rolling out in her wheelchair to direct the process.
She watched closely as I simmered the raisins, cracked the eggs, and mixed the batter. “The raisins seem a bit dry,” she noticed, “So they should go a few minutes longer.”
“Make sure you scrape out the bowl with a spatula,” she said as I filled the jars with batter. “You’re not one of those people who leaves behind good batter in the bowl, now. Are you?”
The recipe was a little odd, and the process was different from typical baked goods. But Grandma walked me through step-by-step and shared all the important tips and tricks that no written recipe could. And she knew what she was talking about, because if the stories are accurate, she had baked around 28,000 loaves in her lifetime.
When I removed the bread from the clear blue jars, everyone gathered around to top their slices high with peanut butter, butter, or a combination of the two. And Grandma, with a mouth full of brown bread, gave me a big thumbs up.
Two and a half weeks later, I pulled up to Grandma’s house again, this time more heavy-hearted. A few of my cousins were gathering to collect photos from her house for the funeral that was scheduled in two days. Along with me I brought ingredients to make another batch of brown bread. That first batch had quickly disappeared, feeding the hungry visitors and caretakers. This time as I simmered, cracked, and stirred, Grandma’s instructions played through my head. (Don’t worry, I made sure to thoroughly scrape the bowl with a spatula.)
I haven’t baked brown bread as faithfully as Grandma, but occasionally I will pull out her bright blue jars and bake a batch. The smell brings back memories of that day in her kitchen and many more days of eating brown bread outside her pop-up camper in northern Michigan, gathering around her table after church, or eating a slice at breakfast with Grandpa before he left for work.
I’m reminded of Grandma’s faithfulness, not just to baking brown bread, but to prayer, family, volunteering, bowling, and friendships. I’m struck by her generosity, always baking more than enough to share.
I’m determined to honor her by taking up the practice of baking, remembering, gathering, and sharing.
