Baba's Dough

(pertains to abortion)

Baba, Baba, Baba , I heard my name being whispered three times and I knew what that meant. I winked at God and laid my fullhouse down on the poker table. In a combination of magic, BeetleJuice and Harry Potter magic, if my name was whispered by a family member three times, like in the Beetlejuice TV series,  I would apparate to my portrait. I don’t know how it all worked, it just did. It had been awhile since someone called me in need. What bad timing I thought, I was just about to win the pot. 

I slipped into my picture, straightened my pearls, and looked around the kitchen to see who had called me. My daughter, Beth, and my granddaughter, Valerie, sat at the mahogany table. Both of them drummed their fingers. What could be so urgent? Last time I was summoned it was for Beth’s graduation from Medical School. 

“Ahem”, I cleared my throat to announce my presence. 

“Ah, Baba,” my daughter, Beth, said. 

 “Hi grandma,” Angela said. She thinly smiled, and the dark circles under her eyes were deeper blue than I recalled from my last visit. She was working too many hours as an ER doctor. I wanted to reach out and hug her. But, I was stuck in my frame. 

“You interrupted the beat down I was giving God at Texas Hold’em,” I said, “This better be important.” 

“I want to tell Angela how you were a rebel,” Beth stated. “Do I have your blessing?”

Hmm, I didn’t like the idea of my granddaughter learning about my illegal activity. Times were different when I was a young woman. We were uneducated, expected to stay home and have lots of babies, and mind our husbands. Plus, all the things I did are not against the law anymore. 

“A rebel? Really?” Angela asked. Oh I could see the doubt on her face, those raised eyebrows! The same look she used to give me when I told her to fall asleep or the tooth fairy wouldn’t visit. She was torn between wanting to believe me so she got her silver dollar and wanting to be grown up and not believe in fairies. It pleased me that my grandbaby questioned  her mother’s implication that I had been naughty. 

“I thought I was taking that to the grave?” I asked. We burst into laughter. I did. Now, she was trying to resurrect that part of me. 

“Tell your grandma what’s going on in the hospital,” Beth nudged Angela. 

I leaned in. I was so proud of my Angela, first in class in high school, carried on that work ethic into University, and now saving lives at the local hospital. My eyes widened in anticipation. Then they expanded in horror as she shared. 

“Roe has been overturned,” she sighed. “ The default law is barbaric and prevents women from getting any kind of medical attention until their condition is critical.” 

“Dear Lord,” I said to Beth. “I can’t believe that I've been playing poker and missed all this poppycock.” 

“I know,” Beth added. “After all the women that died before Roe v. Wade, and our hard work to educate folks, we are all set back fifty years.” She turned to Angela. 

“Baba, your grandma, drove women across state lines for safe abortions,” Beth said. There it was. Done. My stomach flipped thinking Angela would think less of me. Our favorite activity while she grew into a young lady was to watch wholesome variety shows on TV. I thought I could keep that part of my past,  in the grave; that this day would never come. 

“Whoa, Grandma!” Angela exclaimed. “You were a badass.”

“It’s true,” I said. “I sold loaves of my homemade bread for funds. And, I marched on the capital for choice.” I hated the whole situation: hearing story after story of failed birth control, the need for medical care, and even botched abortions.

“What should I do?” Angela moaned. “I can lose my license if I help these desperate women.”

“Well, when your mom had a problem, we would pull out the recipe box and bake bread.”

“Seems like by the time we were slicing into a loaf, I had a solution,” agreed Beth. 

Beth pulled out my earthenware bowl that traveled across the ocean from the old country. Like I mentioned, I made a lot of bread for extra cash. Used those funds for educational pamphlets, gas to drive to California, and a trip to Washington, D. C. I laughed to myself thinking how I brought a whole other meaning to ‘a woman’s place is in the kitchen.’ 

I watched as Angela chose my rye bread recipe. First they measured the flour. Then added the salt. Moving onto the yeast, they stirred it with sugar and water and watched for foaming. 

“It’s foaming,” I said. “Like I am with so much anger.”

I followed my daughter’s finger as she ran it along the index card. As Angela blended the wet and dry ingredients together, the mixture and my girls folded into one another. 

Taking turns kneading the dough, I could almost hear the wheels in their brains turning along with the dough. 

“Let me in there,” Angela joined hands with her mother and they stretched together. “I can’t believe I never heard this story. Was it risky, Baba?”

“Yes, if she was caught she would have gone to jail and paid a big fine,” Beth answered for me. I had nodded off, the fermentation step always takes so long. 

As we waited, another question bubbled from Angela. “Did Baba want to go to college?” Angela asked. 

“Yes, but her generation was expected to marry right after high school…” 

“And start having babies?” Angela finished. 

Yep, that’s the truth. We had no birth control, so, lots of children. I had a few friends that would have liked more choice in the size of their families. That’s when I got interested in reproduction and women’s health, and started peeking at Beth’s textbooks. I made sure she went to college. Her choices weren’t much better: nursing or teaching: but at least she had a few. 

“I caught Baba reading my textbook on Reproductive Health,” Beth shared. Both women looked my way. 

 “Well, excuse me for wanting to understand how the lack of legal and safe abortions impacted a woman’s life,” I said. 

“Thank you, Baba.” Angela blew a kiss my way. “You were a rebel.” 

It was tricky. I had to sneak read that book in between her classes. But I wanted –no needed, to understand everything about a woman’s body so I was informed. Before Roe v. Wade decision, there were lots of restrictions on abortions. 

Beth covered the dough and they sat at the table. I watched Angela’s face cloud over and her fingers twist a napkin into a ball. My stomach was tightening too. 

Handing the bowl to Angela, Beth demonstrated how to punch down the risen dough. Wham! In my head I  took out my frustrations on the mixture. Bam! That’s for overturning a fifty year ruling that the majority of people agreed should be in place. Another thump. That’s for removing educational and career opportunities for women. I could tell that Angela and I had more whacks inside us, but Beth slid the bowl away.  She covered it again and we waited for the second rising. 

“What a mess,” Beth and Angela said simultaneously.  

I listened as my granddaughter told story after story of how difficult it was as a doctor to be prevented from providing care. How everything was muddled and everyone was concerned. Concerned for their patients and themselves. Angela mentioned that some of the information she passed onto these scared females could be considered illegal under these uncertain times. Tears welled up in our eyes. 

Beth placed the risen dough into the oven. For the next thirty minutes I thought about how strong women have often had to break the law to make life better. Hadn’t we already fought this battle? And others? The right to an education, voting, and abortion came to mind. Here was my daughter and granddaughter having to revisit this same issue. 

Pulling the bread out, Beth showed Angela how to give it a gentle tap. 

“What is the tapping for?” Angela asked.

“I’m listening for a hollow sound,” Beth answered. 

Angela snickered.  

“What’s so funny?” Beth asked.

“I was thinking of all the hollow promises made by politicians,” Angela was on a roll. “How the ones that wanted to overturn Roe promised to support women and families.” 

“It’s time to rise like the bread,” said Beth. 

“And like Baba,” added Angela.  

I stayed silent. It looked like my rye bread recipe had done the trick. After the loaf cooled a bit, Beth tore off a hunk and smeared it with butter. Handing a piece to Angela, she watched her take a bite. She chewed. And she chewed. She looked like she was chewing on her thoughts as well. 

“Baba,” Angela said, “I’m so proud to be your granddaughter.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But why?” 

“Your risk taking must have leaked into my genes,” Angela replied. 

“Meaning…?” Beth prompted. 

“I know what I have to do.” Angela stood from the table and walked to my portrait. She touched my face. “Thank you Baba.” 

“You’re welcome,” I said. I could see the fierceness in her posture. The determination on her face. 

“I’m taking a stance,” Angela said. “I took an oath to provide the best care possible, even if it’s against the law.”

“Just like Baba, sometimes you have to break the law and fight for change,” Beth winked at me. “I support you.” 

I winked back. I was proud of my girls. I didn’t envy the cards that they had been dealt. But like my dead friend in heaven, Voltaire, said, ‘she alone must decide how to play her hand.’ Speaking of hands, I had my fullhouse to return to. 

“Time to go,” I said. “Say the magic words, please.”

They held hands and jointly said, “Godspeed, Godspeed, Godspeed.” 

As I was whisked back to heaven, I hollered, “I’ll get my prayer chain going.” 

And I heard them reply, “We’re going to need them.”