Breaking Bread

Every summer since turning six, Phil spent time with his grandmother on her Nebraska farm. The beginning of these pastoral seasons would send his mind dancing as he watched from the window of his parents’ sedan. The trek from Minneapolis took them down twists and turns as cornfields swallowed up the horizon while they inched farther from suburbia and into the rolling rural hills. 

Once there, he become “nana’s” Philly, her sidekick and student. He would rise early with her to assist in the daily rituals. There were kitchen duties in the early morning, usually preparation for the meals of the day. They would eventually head down to the chicken coop to tend the laying hens. Before the heat and humidity rose too high, they walked the garden rows and watered spots needing additional assistance between temperamental midwestern squalls. In the evening, they would sit together and she told tales from her youth, whisking his mind to distance places and times. Essentially, he was the shadow she cherished in every moment. 

As the years passed, however, the young and eager boy soon took on a new role of angsty teenager. His summers were still spent at the farm, though he now argued against the need to spend time under supervision. He was, as he proudly proclaimed, sixteen and perfectly capable of not dying while home alone. He had lost his youthful magic and replaced it with a wish for independence. Upon the insistence of his parents, hiding their personal concerns for a son’s rebellion behind the guise of caring for an aging grandmother, he found himself back again with summer bags sitting on the stoop of the farm after a mopey trip from the Twin Cities. 

“We mostly want to make sure he stays out of trouble. You know how kids are these days.” His father’s concern was quickly met by his nana’s wise retort. “Jeff, keeping an adolescent boy like Phil cooped up won’t make him appreciate you or me.” Instead, she noted, it would likely spur harsh feelings and possibly cruel comments. His folks seemed to dismiss this, either due to the necessity of the matter or just for shear lack of attention in their need to return to Minnesota for work. Phil was trapped and sadly his nana knew it too. 

As the first week went by, Nana noticed that the cherished shadow she remembered was still sleeping in each morning. Phil had developed a tendency to only emerge from his room to eat or ask for things to preoccupy himself. Nana felt at a loss, unable to offer anything new from the normal routines of her farm. Boredom soon overtook him, and at dinner one evening he asked, “is there anything fun to do in town?” 

“Well,” she managed to say through a mouthful of hot dish before swallowing, “no, not much for our dinky town of only two-hundred people. Come to think of it, most businesses either folded or moved to bigger areas a few counties over. If you’re not interested in the work I have to do around here, I bet you could ask around the town for options. You might be able to get a job helping one of the other farmers out, and I know Mr. Allen could use a extra set of hands with his cattle. Mind you, some of the locals aren’t as patient as I am.”

Phil dismissed this idea. Nana’s suggestion did however conjure a new scheme. He began to consider ways in which he could use up the dead hours on his grandmother’s farm while possibly making some extra cash. “Nana, isn’t there a small café on the highway?” How hard could a position at a dying café in an old Nebraska town be? Far better than the laborious actions of tending to livestock on some stranger’s farm. 

“Sure, the building still stands at the far southeast corner of town. But Philly, that place has been closed for years. I think the last time we went there was its final summer in operation. And you were probably ten at the time. The town’s lucky it has been used on occasion for this or that to hold off its inevitable demolition for the lot’s space.” 

Phil sighed as he watched the prospect float off, a trailing thought lost to the dilapidated state of this rural community. But Nana didn’t lose sight of the idea, instead sending out a mental lasso to grab the notion for an additional inspection at what it could warrant. 

“You know, the small stand where Mrs. Kramer used to sell her pies is still on the side of the building. She and I still chat via the rotary phone every Thursday. I bet she would be open to the idea of you using the space.” 

“To do what?” Phil watched a smile stretch across his grandmother’s face. 

“Why not start up a little business? Become an entrepreneur and see what you can make of things?”

“Right,” he chortled with sarcasm, “and what may I ask might there be to sell in town?” 

“How about bread? You used to be a handy helper for me when I would whip up loaves years ago. Want to make it a joint venture? Perhaps it wasn’t exactly what Phil had in mind, but soon the idea had taken ahold of his nana who was acting more spry than he could recall. What else was there to do?

On Thursday’s call, Mrs. Kramer mentioned no concern about their use of the old space adjacent to the café. To be honest, her voice on the phone seemed to suggest she may have forgotten about it altogether. It was agreed that the two would test the water with an initial day of sales. Their endeavor would center around fresh baked bread to be sold for the Sunday morning church crowd. With the only church in town just across the way from their locale, Phil and Nana agreed it would be the best time for a trial run. 

Surprisingly, the stand had maintained its structure over the past six years. Aside from a need for a bit of oil on the door hinges, a good mopping, and a small touch of TLC, the place had potential. Phil felt a jolting thrill as he set to work on the place under the guidance of his nana. She relished in his elbow grease as she had with his assistance in those years before, though perhaps he showed a bit more focus now that he wasn’t chasing the chickens or splashing around with the watering hose.

The Saturday afternoon before the big day, they set to work with their ingredients and began whipping dough into form. Phil managed the mixing and kneading while nana situated herself by the fireplace to observe the proving batches and the oven. Smells of acting yeast permeated the kitchen, and watching her grandson set to work with ardor filled Phil’s nana’s heart with a long lost sense of happiness for days of old. By day’s end, they had piled their pillowy loaves in baskets ready for the morning crowd. 

The sun rose the following day and set a visual fire across the plains as its hues of red and orange reflected the fiery spirits of grandmother and grandson. After a quick breakfast, they loaded up their manna for the masses and took off for town. 

“Showtime,” Nana exclaimed as they drove the old Ford pickup down the country lane kicking up dust behind them. 

To ensure a decent interest in their targeted audience, Phil had set word through the town about their upcoming sale. It didn’t take much to spread work in a tiny town of two hundred. Nana assisted in this by ringing up the party line to share the pride for her grandson.

“Of course we’ll stop by,” said Mr. Bentler. Even Mrs. Grueller exclaimed, “it sounds like a fun time you’ve had together! I’d cherish the opportunity to share in the fun with a purchase.” 

Similar sentiments came through the phone’s receiver in the days prior. Phil felt a sense of accomplishment as he recalled the phone calls and chats with townsfolk. He and his nana had managed to make something out of what, he had presumed, could have been a horrible summer. As the church bell pealed through the tiny town to mark the upcoming service, he pulled himself back to reality.

Nana parked and with a slam of the old trucks doors, she and Phil waddled toward the stand with their baskets filled and set to sell. Patiently, they prepared the array of loaves. Phil felt so bold as to note how he thought the place looked the gem of the town. Perhaps a bit overzealous, his nana thought. But why spoil the idea of a dose of reality when she hadn’t seen Phil’s face alit like this in years.

“Well Nana, I think we’ve done it!”

“Let’s hope so!” She took a sweeping look over the situation, let out a small sigh, and sunk into her lawn chair. “It’s your show, Philly. Go make a scene.”

The end of church finally rolled around, and a small trickle of families emerged from the edifice’s double doors. A stream split off from the main line of attendees and made their way across the street with eyes gazing at the spread of breads. Phil addressed the first few customers who paid with a quick “thank you” before departing. The cash exchange brought a tangible sense of satisfaction to him as another five customers diverted from the church toward his stand. 

It didn’t take long for things to die down, especially since they congregation only consisted of a percentage of the town’s population. A final family made a purchase as two gentlemen wearing suspenders and scowls sauntered up to the counter. Phil assumed they hadn’t taken well to today’s scripture message. Or perhaps they just held perpetual countenances of those smelling fertilizer. 

“So, this is the kid who could have been helping me these past few weeks at the farm. Decided to play housewife and cook with his gran? She told us you might be a useful aid but by the looks of it those delicate hands may be too timid for mans’ work.”

“That’ll do, Mr. Allen. And same goes for your brother.” Nana remained collected but stern in her delivery of this comment from her seated position. It seemed the men had not noticed her in the stillness she kept behind the counter. 

“Well, no sense wasting the goods. But I think I’d like a sample first.” Phil could hardly believe the audacity. Yet, to get the men out of his hair, he obliged. Handing each a chunk of the last loaf, he hoped to gain some respect out of their tasting.

“What in God’s name is this garbage? Tastes worse than hog slop! No sense buying that shit. Glad to know we didn’t hire on an incompetent little kid to help around the farm.” And with that, the Allen brothers strutted off down the street holding to their suspender straps laughing at Phil and his nana. 

Phil was irate. Nana, however, seemed to take the commentary without a flinch. In fact, Phil thought for a second he glimpsed a soft bounce as she presumably chuckled in her seat. As the Allen’s continued their walk away, Phil broke the silence.

“What assholes! How dare they make such rude comments. It can’t be that bad.” Could it? To be fair, he hadn’t sampled any of their product prior to sales. In a flash, he made a grab toward one of the remaining loaves and tore a chunk to taste. Within moments, he had spat out the chewy bite. He was thrown by how on-point the critics comments had been. 

The sounds of laughter erupted from beside him. Nana couldn’t contain it any longer. 

“To think Phil. We managed a one-star review on our first day. But hey, we’re still the best rated spot to eat in town even if it is the ONLY one. How’s that for a comical scenario?”

“But Nana, how did the loaves turn out so terrible?” 

“Oh that’s no surprise to me! I watched you use far too much salt in the recipe. You likely confused the measurement or perhaps mixed it up with another ingredient.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!?” 

“Phil, this endeavor was likely the best activity I’ve had in years. It made me feel young again and allowed me to spend time with one of my favorite people on this planet. Why spoil the fun early when we had the opportunity to get some laughs in and even manage to make a few bucks for those terrible lumps?” 

And with that, Phil allowed a small smile to creep across his face. She was right. They had fun, passed the time together, and he too had felt the joy of being back in the kitchen to share the skills he’d learned years ago. Perhaps he wasn’t too old to still be his grandmother’s shadow. And perhaps he had a lesson to learn about checking a recipe two times…or perhaps three.