MMmmmmmmmmmmm...smell that?

I took the day off on Friday to recoup from the Annual Meeting at work and just the long weeks I have had when Steven was gone. My day went like this. 7:30am - woke up, made Lou breakfast and had a hot cup of coffee. 8:00am - brought Lou to school. 8:30am - sat on the couch, drank more coffee, watched the Today show. 9:00am - watched the Ellen show. 10:00am - watched the Price is Right. 11:00am - watched my soap. I took breaks only to use the bathroom and refill my coffee cup. Then I got up and needed to do something productive with my day - after about a pot of coffee, I REALLY needed to do something.

I was reminded of a story that was told in Lou's Hebrew School on Wednesday about a baker that made Challah. It was a long story, but the Challah part stuck in my brain.

I looked around the kitchen. Yeast, check. Flour, check. Sugar, check. Eggs, check. Oil, check. I had it all - amazing in my house! So, I brought out the recipe for making Challah.

As I poured the yeast, I noticed a familiar smell. As I mixed the ingredients together and put my hands in to give the mixture a good mix, I remembered the sticky mess and how I would get it off my hands. When I folded it out onto the board and began kneading it, I could feel all the ingredients come together to form an elastic mass, no longer messy, but soft, pliable and manageable. I coated my dough in oil and carefully placed it in a bowl on the stove. I turned the oven on warm to create that warm environment for the ingredients to work their magic. After nurturing my dough for 2 hours, beating it down and watching it emerge for another 2 hours it was perfect. I divided my dough, braided it, covered it in egg whites and baked it. I was so proud of my project. Secretly, I prayed it would turn out great - not too hard, not too soft.

When I was younger, I would make bread with my grandmother. It's not that we had a great relationship, but I do remember checking the bread under the dish towel and see it rising higher and higher. I remember the smell coming from the radiator - where she would put the rising dough. I remember the loads of butter on the bread hot out of the oven.

This particular Friday brought back so many memories. Memories of my childhood, memories of my family, memories of my past and present. Making bread from scratch is sort of like life. You add all the ingredients to create a successful life, expecting something magical. Sometimes you end up with a sticky mess, trying to figure out what the heck to do next. Sometimes you end up with a masterpiece. Regardless of how it turns out, you nurture, you knead and you pray for the best.

My husband and child gobbled up the bread. I shared some of the bread with a very dear friend. I got rave reviews from my slightly (ok, very) fussy child. It was all worth it. It was worth the time, the work, the mess and the waiting. Just like life. It is worth the time, the work, the mess and the waiting. Someday, a masterpiece will emerge. I just know it!