The Making of Sourdough Bread

“It’s my mom.” I peer over Ezra’s shoulder to study the photograph he’s holding. “Before her bread-making days.” 

He tilts the old, faded photo towards the light. “That’s wild. She looks just like you.” 

“Yeah. I get that a lot.” I brush a few dead spiders off the top of the wilted cardboard and drag the box out to the center of the attic. “Come on babe, there’s a few more boxes here.” I heave it towards the door with a grunt. “Three generations of Romeros in one house and I don’t think anyone’s ever thrown anything away.” 

“Ha. I mean, it’s kinda cool though. I’m glad I’m finally getting to see where you grew up.” He sorts through a handful of more old pictures. 

I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my neck. “Yeah. Don’t get too attached. I’m not sure I like this much history now that I have to pack it.” I gesture towards the box on the floor. “Let’s take this downstairs I’m dying up here.” 

“Yeah ok.” We each grab a box and head down the creaky stairway. 

After the attic, the kitchen is blissfully cool. Obstinately against air conditioning, my mom has always risen early, and worked in the mornings as the house cools with the morning breeze, leaving the afternoons to swell with the heat as she sits with a cup of iced tea. Midmorning, her colorful, flowered curtains flutter against the tall windows. Ezra carefully places the picture of my mom that looks so much like me off to the side as we plop our boxes onto the kitchen table. “You know,” I grab a small, empty box from the stack, “Mom doesn’t want any of this stuff, but we can save a box, if you want.” 

“Maybe. Yeah.” He glances at me. “It’s just, you know, my family doesn’t have any of this.” He waves his hand around, gesturing at the house. “You know, roots.”

I fold the box and place it on the table. 

He catches my hand midair, and gently intertwines our fingers. “Maybe you’re sick of roots but I want - I want our family to have at least some.”

His touch seems to bring the world into a sharper focus. A wonderful little shiver zips down my spine. We’ve been engaged for a month, but the topic of a family still hangs between us, exquisitely full of possibilities. “Yeah, yeah. Ok.” The curtains drift in the breeze behind him, even more vivid and technicolor in this moment. We open the boxes, and begin to sort, sharing smiles. 

Ezra breaks into the comfortable silence eventually. “I mean I get that your mom doesn’t want to be here by herself it just seems kinda sad to sell a place that’s been in your family so long.” 

“Yeah.” I pause for a second. “ I honestly did always picture coming back home here. But I guess the vineyard was dad’s business, I don’t think she wants to take care of it.” 

“I mean that’s fair.” He sets down a wooden box, carved with the spiraling branches of a tree. 

“Wait -” I reach across the table and pick it up. “No way.” 

“What?” 

“I think I know what this is.”

“Really? Was it your grandma’s?” We’ve separated out piles of things all across the table, but most of it is unidentifiable or not worth keeping. 

“No - actually I think it’s my mom’s. My grandma used to tell me this story about my mom when she was younger - how she became so good at baking bread actually.” 

“Really?” 

“Uh huh, it’s a pretty crazy story too.” 

“Ok.” 

“My grandma would always tell me that my mom used to be a terrible cook, for all the recipes she tried to teach her, she would always dry out the meat, overcook the vegetables, and scorch the bread. Grandma was an amazing cook, but could never teach my mom anything - especially when my mom turned twenty, and met the first love of her life, and all she had eyes for was him. 

“My grandma was worried, her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother before that all had track records of marrying their first loves with disastrous results. So she made a secret plan to break them up, but she didn’t have to, because he suddenly ran off and left her.” 

“What, really?” 

“Haha yeah, I always used to wonder if she would have actually broken them up.” 

“And how. This is like a telenovela”

“Yeah actually.” 

“I mean - lucky for you, but still.” 

“So anyways, this guy runs off with some other girl, I guess, and leaves my mom completely brokenhearted, but rather than break down and cry, my mom runs to the kitchen, locks herself in, and swears she’s not going to leave until she learns how to cook. 

“No one could find any spare keys, and it’s a solid old house so they couldn’t even break the door down - apparently this is also why there’s no door to the kitchen now.” I gesture to the empty door frame that connects the kitchen to the hall.  “But they couldn’t even get in through the windows. 

“For days, the smells of things burning wafted through the house. Everyone thought she wasn going to burn the house down. My grandma, whenever she put her ear to the kitchen door, could hear my mom sobbing inside the kitchen. Then, one morning, the irresistible smell of baking bread began to fill the house. It woke everyone up, and they all came downstairs, as if in a trance. The kitchen door was unlocked and flung open, and my mom stood at the counter, up to her elbows in flour, singing cheerfully, rolling bread dough, with beautiful round loaves of bread all around her.” 

“Oh that’s great.” 

“I know. I always just thought she made the story up. But my grandma always told me this - that while my mom was locked in the kitchen, she went to my mom’s room, and took the wooden box where she knew my mom kept all her love letters, and hid it so she wouldn’t be hung up on this one guy forever.” I point to the box sitting on the table between us. “A box carved like a tree.” 

Ezra pounces on it. He’s quite a romantic, at heart. He fiddles with the latch for a moment, and then it opens. A yellowed bundle of papers slide out. “No way.” 

It’s a surreal feeling, seeing the papers slip out of the box from a childhood story. I almost don’t want it to be real. 

He sets the box down and picks up a paper, gingerly unfolding it. “Dear Liliana,” He begins to read, “As I write this, I can’t help but think about that one day we spent up in the north field of the vineyard near the stream. My lovely Liliana, only another month before I’ll be back in Oregon and we can -” He breaks off from reading sheepishly. “I’m not sure I want to read this about my future mother in law.” 

“Really?” 

He hands it to me, and I feel ridiculous as my heart starts to beat just a bit faster. I scan through the lines of scrawled handwriting. “Oh my.”It’s detailed, but definitely not dad’s handwriting. A sliver of interest slides off of my initial reluctance, and I flip it over. At the bottom, it’s signed. “Owen.” 

“Is that the guy from your grandma’s story?” 

“I dunno, she never told me his name.” I should just fold the papers back up, and leave the box on the counter for my mom to discover later. But I’m curious now that the story has been unearthed. My fingers slide across the table, scooping up the fragile papers. I sink into the seat, and began flipping through them. They’re all signed by the same, slanted, Owen. “I guess she really did hide my mom’s old love letters.” I wonder briefly what other of her crazy stories might be rooted in reality. “Who knew.”

“Who knew.” Ezra looks thoughtful for a moment. “So that was it? Your mom just started making really good bread after he dumped her?” 

“Yep. My grandma always said it was that good because of all the tears that went into the bread. She’s used the same starter all these years.” 

“Huh. Like a bread baking superpower or something.” 

“Haha yeah.”I collect the letters and place them back in the box, just as mom wafts through the door. 

In the year since dad died, she’s seemed to have grown less grounded. She walks lightly, around the house, melting into silky, billowy clothes. Only when she’s in the kitchen does she seem to come to life, shedding her layers and kneading dough with as much gusto as ever. She sees us at the table and glides over, perching on the table. “How’s the packing coming, lovebirds?” 

“Pretty good.” 

I sit up, and reach across the table for the box. “I think we found something that belongs to you.”

“What’s this?” She takes the box, and I see she recognizes it. “Oh -” She opens a paper. “Oh. You kids didn’t read these did you?” 

“Noooo.”  I raise an eyebrow at her. “But Owen? Is that the mystery guy who kickstarted your bread making career?”

“Good old Owen, I’d nearly forgotten about him.” She shakes her head. “I suppose it’s a good thing he up and left, or I’d never have gotten you, or any of my other lovely children.” 

“And you would never have learned how to bake bread.” 

“Yes,” She laughs, “That too.” 

For a moment, the bitter, heavy ache that’s been resting against our chests for the past year seems to lift, the house coming to life beneath her laughter and our smiles. Then it settles again, and in the silence, the papers rustle, as mom shuffles through them. 

 I can hardly blame her for leaving, without my dad this giant old house just seems to sigh all its energy out. It seems even more deflated now, as everything is emptied into cardboard moving boxes. I never pictured this house empty. 

She sighs, as if trailing my thoughts. “Well, I’m off. There’s nothing in the house for dinner, and with you two here I can’t just scrounge like I usually do.” 

“Oh, no, don’t worry, we’ll eat whatever.” 

“No no darling, you two have been a huge help, the least I can do is feed you dinner.” 

“Okay.” 

She stands up, briskly snapping the currents of sadness out of the air. She leaves us at the table, and we sit, sorting pictures, Ezra’s hand gently stroking the back of my neck. 

By the next evening, everything but the very essentials is packed, the furniture standing awkwardly  around the bare rooms. Ezra and I sit on the front porch, overlooking one of the fields, lazy in the heat. Our flight out isn’t until the next morning. Everything, for the moment, is still. 

“I guess this is the last time we’ll be here.” 

“Yeah.” Ezra glances over at me. “I’m sorry babe, I can tell how much you love this place.” 

“It’s just weird, you know?” The bitterness of the moment is softened by the summer evening sun though. It’s that time of day where the land really seems to glow. It’s beautiful. 

“We’ve been pretty busy too, I feel like I haven’t really seen much of it. Do you wanna take a walk around, you can show me all your favorite spots?”

“Sure.” I slide my feet into my sandals. Looking out over the field, I see a car pulling slowly down the long drive towards the house, kicking up a long tail of shimmering, brown dust. “Who’s that?” I frown at the car. “I didn’t know anyone was coming.” 

“I don’t know.” 

The car parks a polite distance from the house, and a man gets out, looking around in the manner of one who hasn’t been in a place for a long time. He sees us on the porch. “I guess it’s probably rude of us to walk away now.” 

“Let’s just see if he needs anything.” Ezra links his fingers in mine, and we amble down the porch steps to meet him. 

“Hello.” The man raises a hand in greeting. He looks at me. “Well I’ll be. If you’re not Liliana Romero’s daughter.” 

“Yeah. Sorry - do I know you?” 

“Oh, no, I’m an old friend of hers.” He chuckles, “You’re just the spitting image of her.” He draws up to us, and shakes hands with me, and then Ezra. “I’m Owen Morter, is Liliana here?” 

I feel my eyes widen and I glance at Ezra. No way. He looks back at me both surprised and mischievous. I gather myself, “Um, yeah, she’s here. Just, here - follow me.” I turn in a confused circle around Ezra for a second, and then we head back up to the porch, my mom’s ex following behind us. 

Ezra leans in close, “What the heck, this is so weird. ” He whispers. “It’s like we conjured him. What do you think he’s doing here?” 

I whisper back. “I have no idea.” 

We lead him down the hall. “Uh, one second.” I say to Owen. I poke my head into the living room. “Mom?”  The living room is empty. I come back into the hall, right as mom drifts  serenely through the front door, stopping in her tracks to find so many people clustered in her hall. “Oh, mom -” 

Ezra and Owen turn, and she catches sight of Owen.

“Liliana Romero. Just as lovely as ever.” He shakes his head. 

“Owen Morter?” She steps forward. “What - what on earth are you doing here?” She shoots a quick glare at me but I shrug and shake my head. 

“Well, I had heard you were selling the place, and I wanted to see it again. I’ve got some great memories here and I’m looking at investing in some land around here.” He clears his throat. “I was so sorry to hear about Will. My condolences.” 

Mom, usually so eloquent, stammers out some sort of reply. I realize me and Ezra are still rooted in place, listening to their conversation. I tug at his arm and we retreat down the hall, escaping out the kitchen door. 

“Oh my god! That’s so crazy, what is your mom’s ex doing here?” Ezra looks at me excitedly as soon as we are out of earshot. 

“I have literally no idea. It’s super crazy though.” I laugh. 

“Hmmm. I think he’s coming to woo her.” 

“Ezra!” 

“What? Don’t you think so? After those letters we found yesterday. . . Might not be a bad thing.” 

“Oh lord, here we go.” We stroll down one of the vineyards paths. 

“What? All those days out in the northern field? I wouldn’t mind having some moments like that to remember.” He grabs my hand, and pulls me into a kiss. 

“Ohh” I laugh, kissing him back. I feel my back against a tree, and then we’re oblivious of the beautiful countryside for a few moments. 

He leans next to me against the tree. “I’m not sure about this Owen guy. I don’t think your mom should sell the house to him.” 

“Because he jilted her in love some 40 years ago?” I look at Ezra teasingly. The golden sunbeams wrap around us in the evening breeze. 

“No,” He looks steadily at me. “Because I think we should buy this place from your mom.” 

I tilt my head. “Hmm.” And by way of answer, I pull him towards me again. 

Between kisses, he surfaces, smiling mischievously. “Kind of a shame your first lover never jilted you though. Think of all that bread-making talent going to waste.” 

I wrap my arms happily around his neck. “Oh yes, what a shame.”