I think it's already established that as a modern career-oriented young woman of the late twentieth century I was a, well, not a failure, but not a die-hard, either. I modeled myself more after my great-grandmothers than I did the roles being touted. I loved and still do, all things home, knitting, quilting, baking, big pots of soup, and so on.
This morning as I was cutting my latest loaf of bread, I pondered. I wondered how many loaves I've sliced over the years. I made my first bread when we were newlyweds. I made bread off and on for a number of years, but then Dan gifted me with a Kitchenaid mixer about 1980 and I began to make all our bread. I did this until I got a bread machine and used it to continue. So, lots of loaves of bread.
When we emptied out my parents' house, there weren't many things I said I wanted, but there was one thing I was adamant about: my dad's bread knife. No one fought me over it; I think they knew I was serious. Dad had taken over most of the cooking years before and making bread was one thing he really got into. He did it using a bread machine. Dad was a true lover of gadgets--and a sharp knife.
I used it this morning. Whenever I use his knife, I can see my dad's hand so plainly, holding it, slicing. ♥




