The school I attended through third grade was right next to a shopping center with a supermarket and a scattering of generic suburban stores: a Jo-Ann’s Fabrics and a dry cleaners and a bagel spot. We often stopped there for groceries after the 3 PM school dismissal. Other details from that age are hazy, but I can recall the layout of the store in precise and specific detail, right down to the orientation of the checkout counters and the location of the tin of bacon bits in the salad bar.
The bulk bin section was by far the most exciting area to visit—a veritable treasure trove of dry goods that was a source of endless fascination for four small girls. The ingredients were kept in large wooden barrels with clear lids that flipped up to reveal metal scoops inside for doling out the flour (or barley or raisins or what have you) into thin plastic bags with a yellow square printed on the outside.
My mom would fill a bag to the brim with small, nubby breadsticks the length of a golf pencil, coated in sesame seeds and as dry as melba toast. At home, she’d take out a ramekin of butter from the fridge.
(She churned our own butter from cream skimmed off the milk we got from our Jersey cows twice a day; she’d put the cream in the food processor and turn it on until a slick, lumpy mass of butter emerged and separated from the watery whey. She’d transfer it to a colander and drain out the whey, squeezing it with her hands to remove as much liquid as possible. The remaining butter was a beautiful bright yellow, and she’d pack it into little brown ceramic ramekins and store them in the door of our fridge.)
It was one of these ramekins she’d take out, letting it soften slightly before sitting down with the bag of breadsticks and swiping them across the surface of the chilled butter, then eating them one by one.
Eating crackers spread with butter seems like a highly underrated system. And as a new mother, I also can now appreciate this peculiar ritual with a different depth of understanding.
All four of us after school, likely about to cause chaos
I picture my mom, sitting for a few moments in the quiet kitchen or sometimes behind the steering wheel of our parked car in the driveway. She’s sheltered briefly from the raucous and ever-constant noise of the four of us—running about, yelling, asking questions, needing help, needing a snack, needing a kiss, needing a shirt buttoned, needing a shoe tied, needing, needing, needing. She has five minutes to turn inwards—to focus solely on the crunch of the breadsticks, and the cold butter. To lick a finger and dab at the loose sesame seeds at the bottom of the bag. To immerse herself in comforting, tactile sensations: smell, taste, touch.
Do you have a ritual of your own? (This reminds me of the Sex & the City episode where Carrie describes her own habit of standing at the sink and spreading a stack of Saltine crackers with grape jelly, then eating them while reading issues of Vogue when she’s home by herself.)
Is it coffee with a gorgeously generous stream of half-and-half, sipped hot while sitting in a particular Adirondack chair on your porch, looking out a lake? Is it leaving the pint of ice cream out to begin softening during dinner, then slowly scraping up spoonfuls of the melted edges while you read the fiction story from the New Yorker?
Is it taking a swim right at dusk, the water deliciously soft and cool against your bare skin? Is it doing the crossword with a bowl of cherries, the crimson juice occasionally staining the page as you absent-mindedly work your way through a handful of fruit, spitting the pits onto the grass?
Maybe it’s the way you eat a cinnamon roll, unfurling the tight coil of dough bit by bit, saving the moist, sugary spiral of filling for last. Or it’s flopping down onto the lawn after a hot run, stretching your legs and arms out wide, and staring up at the clouds until your breath slows to a normal pace and the sweat pools around the collar of your t-shirt.
When you were little, happiness probably looked like a PB&J, cut in half and squished into a Ziploc sandwich bag. Warmed slightly after sitting in your lunchbox, it signaled sweetness and safety and your mother and recess soon to follow, all rolled into one.
If you’re casting about for comforting rituals these days, might as well give the old standbys another shot: today, an excellent PB&J. Later this week, we’ll discuss rice pudding (all grown up) and homemade Cheez-its and s’mores (also grown up).
I won’t pretend to know how you like your PB&J, or to tell you some secret trick to making a perfect one, because…well…beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all that jazz. Make it however you think best—we always used natural peanut butter (the kind with a thick cap of oil that you had to carefully stir to loosen the dense, crunchy mixture below). I prefer preserves to jelly—the sort with chunks of jammy, softened berries suspended in the jar. But you do you! Like creamy, sweet Skippy? Have at it. Into apricot jam or marmalade? Spread it on there.
I do firmly believe in the power of good bread to make or break a sandwich. This sturdy oatmeal bread is perfect for anything from a PB&J to a turkey club. It has a nice crumb and a tiny bit of sweetness. The bread flour gives it a nice softness and good structure, while rolled oats add some heft without that density you often get from whole grain flours.
(Caveat: There is a time and place for squishy white sandwich bread. This is not it, but you absolutely should master a good recipe for that to have on hand for a simple cucumber and mayo sandwich or a very lightly toasted slice spread with butter and topped with cinnamon sugar. More on that other time.)
The recipe for this bread comes from King Arthur, and it’s the one they printed on the back of their bread flour bag for years and years—so you know it’s a reliably good one.
A few recipe notes:
-If you don’t have bread flour on hand, you can use all-purpose flour. Just decrease the amount of milk by 2 tablespoons.
-I use honey, but in a pinch, you can substitute granulated sugar or even molasses or maple syrup.
-Here, I really urge you to weigh your flour—this is the best way to assure success with your dough!
-I always use 1% or 2% milk in my bread recipes; I recommend doing the same.
Oatmeal Bread
Adapted from King Arthur Flour; makes 1 loaf
For the dough
3 cups (361g) bread flour
1 cup (99g) rolled oats
2 tablespoons (28g) unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
2 1/2 tablespoons (52g) honey
2 teaspoons instant or active dry yeast
1 1/4 cups (283g) lukewarm milk
For the topping
1 egg white
1 tablespoon cold water
2 tablespoons rolled oats
Mix together all of the dough ingredients in a large bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook. Knead the dough—either by hand or with the dough hook—until it’s soft and springy to the touch. It doesn’t need to be completely smooth but it shouldn’t look lumpy or overly wet or overly dry.
Transfer the dough to a large lightly greased bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let the dough rise at room temperature for about 1 hour, or until puffy. It won’t completely double in size but it should rise and expand noticeably.
Remove the dough from the bowl and turn it out onto a lightly oiled countertop or work surface. Press it out into a fat 8” long rectangle and then pull the top edge down into the center, then pull the top two corners down into the center, pressing firmly, then repeat this process three times. You’re shaping it into a fat log, but pulling the corners in also—helping to give the log more structure. On the final time, pull the top edge down to the center and press gently, then pull the top two corners in again and press, then pull the bottom edge up to create a log and seal the seam with your fingertips.
Place the dough in a lightly greased 9” x 5” loaf pan, seam-side-down, cover with plastic wrap, and let rise for 1 to 1 1/2 hours—the dough should reach just above the lip of the pan.
Just before you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Remove the plastic wrap from the loaf. Beat together the egg white and the water and brush it over the top of the loaf, then sprinkle the oats on top.
Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and immediately turn the loaf out onto a wire rack to cool completely before slicing.