Reaching for the phone, it is always a delight to see a name on the screen that signals one of the five grandchildren is on the other end.
"G, what are you doing?" asked the youngest of three grandsons.
Regardless of whether my day was filled with a to-do list or if I was already knee deep in the latest project, the answer is always, "Nothing." At this point, on the time line of my life, being needed by a grandchild is a rare delicacy, not to be taken for granted. The 'nothing' was followed with "What's up?"
"I want to bake bread." This was spoken so matter-of-factly, as if he had been baking bread for some time. "Not just any bread", he added, "Texas Roadhouse Rolls bread."
He arrived a short time later. In his hands was a basket full of ingredients and a quickly scrawled recipe. The latter, I assumed, had been found somewhere in the cyberspace of the internet. As he unloaded the basket, he explained that his other set of grandparents were having a family dinner and everyone was bringing some sort of food. He decided on bread.....rolls to be exact.
Anyone who has more than one grandchild understands that it is not only possible, but most likely a requirement, to view each one as a special and unique individual. This idea also holds true for the inner wisdom of feeling different towards each one. After all, they each have characteristics that set them apart. Having raised only daughters, finding out the specific, eye opening, head shaking qualities of boys is a never ending learning experience.
This particular lad, soon to be 14, is the "McGyver" of the family. His brain works in ways that, at times, leaves us speechless. When he was two, he showed the babysitter how to open a locked door with a credit card, after seeing it done once before. As I looked over his basket of goodies, I chuckled at one of the ingredients listed in the recipe.....flower. "I know, I know!" He laughingly explained that his younger sister had already pointed out his faux pas.
Holding up a container of Bragg's Nutritional Yeast Seasoning, a flaky concoction of inactive dry yeast and vitamins, he explained that was what his mother had sent. Obviously, bread making was not a recurring theme in our house, while the daughters were growing up. Having several packets of active dry yeast in the cabinet, all was not lost.
There were no instructions as to how to put the mixture together, but he was sure it all went into the mixer at the same time. He finally accepted the idea that warming the milk, then adding the yeast and honey to the milk, might be a good thing. Putting all the flour into the mixer bowl and turning the dial, to blend the dry ingredients, resulted in a plume of dust that nearly resembled a mushroom cloud. Then, it was time to add the liquid.
We watched as the dough hook went round and round, but nothing was sticking together. The suggestion of more milk was met with some resistance. But, it was obvious, no matter how long we let the mixer spin, nothing was going to happen. The additional milk was the ticket. Finally, the dough began to stick together until the entire blob was sailing around inside the bowl. He dumped it out on a floured spot on the island, gave it a couple of kneads, formed his dough into a somewhat round shape and placed it into a previously oiled bowl. We covered it with oiled plastic wrap and placed it in the oven, with a pan of hot water set beneath the bowl, to help the dough rise.
The dough needed to rise until doubled. Living next door, he told me he would see me in about and hour. With that statement, I watched as he exited stage left.
In his absence, I looked for the recipe online. The milk was short 1/4 cup. The liquid part of the recipe was to be put together first, then the flour added........slowly.
Glancing at the oven, the dough looked pretty much as it had when first put into the bowl. Nearly half of the allowed rising time had passed. I recalled having fixed a failed bread dough. As I walked to the cabinet, to retrieve another packet of active yeast, the Voice, that lives inside my head spoke.
I had not heard the Voice for quite some time. Not exactly sure why, perhaps because I was too busy trying to convince myself on how I had been wronged. The Voice asked me a question. "Do you not remember what you learned about fixing things?" I shut the cabinet door, looked at the dough one more time and remembered. It was from a book, A Course in Miracles. The subject of fixing things was the topic. Being an almighty fixer of all things, be it a broken thingamabob, a relationship or a ball of dough, I was always looking for a way to make things right. The latter sentence is a glamorous way of explaining a control freak. The lesson was a simple one, but not easy to swallow. It was not for me to fix things. My job was to accept them as they were. I pondered over this revelation again. Maybe, just maybe, acceptance was the answer. Was acceptance the apex? The top of the mountain? The end to the hardest climb ever? With acceptance, did a solution form that could not be seen before? I left the dough alone. The Voice sauntered off to the back recesses of my grey matter. All the while, playing Her Strut, by Bob Seger.
With the return of the grandson, I watched in silent delight as 'punch the dough down' turned into a visual of a UFC battle. Rolling the dough was just as entertaining. He barely skimmed the surface, sending the rolling pin flying into the air on each pass. He folded the dough, cut it into individual rolls, placed them on the baking sheet and tossed them in the oven. It was at this time I learned that he had watched a Tik Tok video on how to make the rolls. The internet and Google are becoming so old school.
The end result was a beautiful set of rolls. One in particular, cut larger than the others, quickly disappeared for taste test purposes. The family thought they were the best rolls ever.
I shall just wait until the next time my assistance is called for. May it hold as valuable a lesson as did the Dough Boy.
