Stones For Bread - Softcover

Mcgee, Krista

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1401689019 ISBN 13: 9781401689018

Publisher: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 2013

Synopsis

A solitary artisan. A legacy of bread-baking. And one secret that could collapse her entire identity.

Liesl McNamara’s life can be described in one word: bread. From her earliest memory, her mother and grandmother passed down the mystery of baking and the importance of this deceptively simple food. And now, as the owner of Wild Rise bake house, Liesl spends every day up to her elbows in dough, nourishing and perfecting her craft.

But the simple life she has cultivated is becoming quite complicated. Her head baker brings his troubled grandson into the bakeshop as an apprentice. Her waitress submits Liesl’s recipes to a popular cable cooking show. And the man who delivers her flour—a single father with strange culinary habits—seems determined to win Liesl’s affection.

When Wild Rise is featured on television, her quiet existence appears a thing of the past. And then a phone call from a woman claiming to be her half-sister forces Liesl to confront long-hidden secrets in her family’s past. With her precious heritage crumbling around her, the baker must make a choice: allow herself to be buried in detachment and remorse, or take a leap of faith into a new life.

Filled with both spiritual and literal nourishment, Stones for Bread provides a feast for the senses from award-winning author Christa Parrish.

"A quietly beautiful tale about learning how to accept the past and how to let go of the parts that tie you down." —RT Book Reviews, 4.5 stars, TOP PICK!

About this title

About the Author

Christa Parrish is the award-winning author of three novels, including the 2009 ECPA Fiction Book of the Year "Watch Over Me. "When she's not writing, she'sa homeschool mother of three wonderful children. Married to author and pastor Chris Coppernoll, Christa serves with him as co-leader of their church's youth ministry as well as serving as a facilitator for a divorce recovery ministry. She is now also slightly obsessed with the art of baking bread."

Reviews

Liesl McNamara has long used her family’s tradition of baking bread as her way of hiding from the world. When she’s in the kitchen of her bakery, she can tune out everything but the loaves she’s creating. This works for a time, but eventually the world starts to push through. When Liesl meets her new delivery man, Seamus, and his precocious daughter, Cecilia, she can’t help but become emotionally attached. Because of the pain her mother caused their family when Liesl was young, however, she’s extremely hesitant to engage in a meaningful relationship. When one of her employees enters her in a TV competition, though, Liesl finds herself almost unwillingly turning to Seamus as she deals with the ever-mounting pressures of her newly publicized life. In Parrish’s (The Air We Breathe, 2012) beautifully written novel, the vitality of close relationships is powerfully depicted in Liesl’s struggle to let go of her past and embrace the future right in front of her. Readers will definitely relate to her struggle of faith and confidence. --Carolyn Richard

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Stones for Bread

By Christa Parrish

Thomas Nelson

Copyright © 2013 Christa Parrish
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4016-8901-8

CHAPTER 1

I'm young, four, home from nursery school because of snow. Youngenough to think my mother is most beautiful when she wears herapron; the pink and brown flowered cotton flares at the waist andruffles around the shoulders. I wish I had an apron, but instead sheties a tea towel around my neck. The knot captures a strand of myhair, pinching my scalp. I scratch until the captive hair breaks in half.Mother pushes a chair to the counter and I stand on it, sturdy pine,rubbed shiny with age.

Our home is wood—floors, furniture, spoons, bowls, boards,frames—some painted, some naked, every piece protective aroundus. Wood is warm, my mother says, because it once was living. I feelnothing but coolness in the paneling, the top of the long farm table,the rolling pin, all soaked in January.

At the counter, the smooth butcher block edge meets my abdomen,still a potbellied preschooler's stomach, though my limbs aresticks. Mother adds flour and yeast to the antique dough trough. Salt.Water. Stirs with a wooden spoon.

I want to help, I say.

You will, she tells me, stirring, stirring. Finally, she smoothes oliveoil on the counter and turns the viscous mound out in front of her.Give me your hands. I hold them out to her. She covers her own inflour, takes each one of mine between them, and rubs. Then, tighteningher thumb and forefinger around a corner of dough, she chokesoff an apple-sized piece and sets it before me. Here.

I poke it. It sucks my fingers in. Too sticky, I complain. She sprinklesmore flour over it and says, Watch. Like this.

She stretches and folds and turns. The sleeves of her sweaterare pushed up past her elbow. I watch the muscles in her forearmsexpand and contract, like lungs breathing airiness into the dough.She stretches and folds and turns. A section of hair comes free fromthe elastic band at the back of her head, drifting into her face. Sheblows at it and, using her shoulder, pushes it behind her right ear. Itdoesn't stay.

She stretches and folds and turns.

I grow bored of watching and play with my own dough, flatteningit, leaving handprints. Peel it off the counter and hold it up; it oozesback down, holes forming. I ball it up like clay, rolling it under mypalm. Wipe my hands on the back pockets of my red corduroy pants.

My mother finishes, returns her dough gently to the trough. Sheplaces my ball next to her own and covers both with a clean white teatowel.

I jump off the chair. When do we cook it?

Bake it. Mother wipes the counter with a damp sponge. But notyet. It must rise.

To the sky?

Only to the top of the bowl.

I'm disappointed. I want to see the dough swell and grow, like ahot air balloon. My mother unties the towel from my neck, dampensit beneath the faucet. Let me see your hands. I offer them to her,and she scrubs away the dried-on dough, so like paste, flaky andnear-white between my fingers. Then she kisses my palms and says,Go play.

The kitchen is stuffy with our labor and the preheating oven. Theneighbor children laugh outside; I can see one of them in a navy bluesnowsuit, dragging a plastic toboggan up the embankment made bythe snow plow. But I stay. I want to be kissed again and washed withwarm water. I want my mother's hands on me, tender and strong atthe same time, shaping me as she does the bread.

* * *

I watch their hands, thinking I may be the one to discover the nextLionel Poilâne, as if the knowledge of bread were some sort of giftingimbued before birth. Instead, I see only kindergarteners clumsilystretching the pizza dough, ripping great holes I try to fix for them,saying, "Don't worry, the cheese will cover it." Seven of them fromthe Montessori school in town, along with their young teacher, standat the long farm table at the back of Wild Rise, white paper chef hatsperched atop their heads. That's one of their favorite things about thecooking class, their names written around the band in black MagicMarker. They spread cornmeal over their pizza peels as if feedingchickens, flicking their wrists, granules bouncing everywhere.

The sauce is next. "You only need a little," I tell them as theysplash spoonfuls onto the raw crusts, their shredded mozzarella cheesefloating in a puddle of red. Most of the children add pepperoni in asmiley-face pattern, and then my apprentice, Gretchen, gathers thepeels for baking.

"How long before it's done?" they want to know.

"About ten minutes," I say. "Until then, who can tell me somethingabout bread? It can be something you learned today, or evensomething you already had tucked in your brain." I tap my indexfinger against my temple as I say those last four words, one word foreach beat. The children laugh and waggle their hands in the air, abovetheir heads. I begin by motioning to a petite, flame-haired girl.

"Bread can be made from beans and nuts," she says.

"I'm allergic to nuts," the girl next to her whines, her flat facepink and indignant.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh, pick me," the dark-eyed boy at the end of the tablecalls out. He's bigger than the other children, and his thick brows meetin the middle.

"Yes ... Kalel," I say, reading his hat.

He clears his throat and stands. "Yeasts go into bread at the start.The more they eat, the more they—"

"Thank you, Kalel," the teacher says, but the other children havealready filled in the missing word. They giggle and whisper to oneanother.

I give the teacher a sideways look. "He's six?"

"Seven. He started school a year later," she says, voice puckeringwith familiar exasperation.

I gather the remaining answers, calling each child by name. Thelast girl to respond—Cecelia—says, "Jesus fed lots of people withonly five loaves of bread."

More nudging and tittering. Cecelia melts into her chair, reachesbehind her shoulder to find the end of her long, blond braid, andsticks it in her mouth.

"Who wants to eat?" Gretchen asks, returning from the kitchenwith seven plates. She remembers who belongs to which pizza andwarns them to wait for their food to cool. "There's nothing worsethan burning your tongue on hot cheese."

The children drink fresh-squeezed lemonade, slurping the lastdrops from the bottom of the cups and scooping out the ice to eat,some with their fingers, some with their straws. Kalel uses a fork.Gretchen and I slice their pizza into wedges. The two boys sit atone end of the table. Four of the girls huddle together in the center,so close their elbows keep tangling. And Cecelia at the other end,alone.

"I liked your answer," I tell her, taking the chair between her andthe gaggle of girls, my body a fortification between her and the others.

Her hazel eyes shine. "Really?"

"Really, really."

"I learned that in Sunday school last time I went."

A customer comes into the bakehouse. Elise Braden, devotedlibrarian and Thursday regular, because she loves the Anadama sandwichloaves sold only one day each week. I make twelve and she buysthree. "I don't know why you can't have them all the time, Liesl," shesays as she hands me eleven dollars.

"Because I'm only one person," I say, giving her two quarterschange.

Elise Braden grins. "You could hire better help."

"Hey, I heard that," Gretchen calls from the back of the shop.She's soaking up spilled lemonade from beneath Kalel's penduloussneakers. "I'm wounded. I thought I was your favorite library patron."

"Convince Liesl to have this bread every day and you will be. And,"the slightly stooped woman says, "I'll cancel your overdue fines."

"You don't need it every day," I say. "You buy plenty of it to lastall week."

"Ah, yes. But it tastes much better fresh."

A few more patrons come for lunch. I wait on them, though it'susually Gretchen's job. She relates better with the students, no matterthe ages, stepping into their worlds, drawing them out, connecting.Perhaps it's her college coursework in anthropology. Perhaps it's whoshe is, relaxed and round and fizzy. I have too many angles for peopleto get close.

It's one thirty when the kindergarten class finishes eating. I thankthem for coming on the field trip and give them each a loaf of chocolatesourdough to take home with them. I pack the bread in paperbags. Six of them are printed with the shop's name in the center. Theseventh has the words I am the Bread of Life stamped in front of asimple line drawing of two umber ears of wheat. I give that bag toCecelia.

* * *

Until the most recent of human history, bread came with a price.Touted as simple wholesomeness, it is deceptive in its humility,requiring more painstaking labor than any other basic food. Fruitand vegetables are planted and harvested, and some indigenoustypes require only to be picked off the vine before eating. And whileit's true meat animals must be raised and fed and cared for beforeslaughter, the option of wild game exists. Milk flows and is consumed,pasteurization a relatively newfangled innovation good forincreasing shelf life but not required for drinking. But bread has noraw form. It begins as seed sown, the grasses then reaped, the grainsthreshed, winnowed, ground, sifted, kneaded, fermented, formed,and baked. Modern home cooks think nothing of tearing open abag of silken flour and a package of active dry yeast, and pouringthe dry ingredients into a machine with a couple measures ofwater and a two-hour wait for a fresh loaf. Bread's dark history isunknown to them.

And the sacrifice.

By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to theground, for out of it you were taken.

What can man do but toil under Eden's ruin? Those who workthe fields know of the stinging sun, the dust in their nostrils, the rippingof soil to create a warm, dark cradle for each seed. And when thewheat grows tall and gold, the reaping comes, sheaves cut and tied.Early wheat is hulled, the grains imprisoned in toughened glumesrequiring extra pounding to free them. Threshers beat the wheat witha flail, or oxen walk round and round over it, loosening the husks.This chaff must be blown away during winnowing, by fan or fork,leaving behind the heavier grains.

The first millers, almost exclusively women, kneel on the ground,scrubbing one stone against another, the naked wheat between themcrushed into meal. The marrow of men. And the woman who grinds itstretches her body long, ankles deformed by her work, her belly in thedirt like the cursed serpent who began her misery so long ago.

* * *

Wild Rise closes at three. I lock the door and flip the sign. Gretchencashes out the register and we pack the unsold bread—fourteen loavestoday—into paper sacks bearing the Bread of Life ministry logo. Thosego into a large plastic trash bag. Someone from First Baptist will pickthem up early tomorrow and distribute them to those in need.

We both go to the kitchen. Tee is there, simmering tomorrow'ssoups. She always makes them a day ahead because, according to her,the flavors need at least twenty-four hours to marry.

I hadn't wanted food served at my bakery. To me, bread is bread.There's a purity to it, a dense completeness that nourishes all on itsown. A food that began as an accident. Perhaps a bowl of ground barleyand water left too long in the afternoon sun, baked flat and chewy.A portable food, and with the domestication of grain, a conveniencefood, made at home, without the effort required of hunting game orgathering fruits. Bread built the first cities, established cultures, drewpeople into community. It was buried with Pharaohs and dug fromthe ashes of Mount Vesuvius, perfectly petrified loaves, gray and hardas stone. It survives.

Those credentials don't need a side dish.

But three weeks after I opened, Tee showed up with her tinyJohn Lennon spectacles and short cropped hair and declared in herUkrainian accent, "You need soup."

"Pardon me?"

"I have some. You try." She opened the basket she carried andgave me a warm container. "Try. Try."

I uncovered the paper carton and blew on the steaming liquid.Then I took a sip. The subtle sting of cumin and mellowness of sweetpotato coated my throat as it slid to my stomach. I closed my eyes andexhaled an involuntary sigh.

"Ah, good. You see. We serve it in a little baby boule." She indicatedthe size with her cupped hands. "Everyone will love, eh?"

So I hired her.

"What's on the menu for tomorrow?" I ask.

"Celery root soup with bacon and green apple. And bean and Swisschard."

"Why don't you ever do something normal, like chicken noodle?"Gretchen asks.

"If you want that, buy a can," Tee says, stirring the creamy goodnessin her speckled enamelware pot.

Gretchen begins preparing for the morning. I hover, watching,though by now she knows what to do. She'll make the dough for thesoup boules, challah, sticky buns, and Friday's featured sandwich loaf,cinnamon raisin. I start the poolish—a pre-fermented dough—for myown seven-grain Rustica as she weighs the flour and fills the standmixer. The machine wheezes, rocking a little too much, as it spinsthe ingredients together. It's old and will need to be replaced soon.Vintage, Gretchen calls it. My early morning bakery help, Xavier, callsit a piece of junk.

I can feel when the dough has been kneaded enough. ButGretchen, still unsure, stops the mixer and pulls out a small piece. Shestretches it, holding it toward the light, and a perfect thin membraneappears. The gluten window. It's beautiful, milky, the late afternoonlight caught in the elastic strands of protein.

"Looks good," I say.

"Thanks."

We work without speaking, only the sounds of the machines,the pot lid, the cooler door opening and closing. Some days one ofus remembers to switch on the radio, but not today. At four Tee goeshome. Gretchen's shift lasts another hour and her day is finished aswell. But she stays longer, as she sometimes does, telling me aboutthe graduate class she's taking online, about what a total bummerit is to still be living with her parents at twenty-four, and about herplans to go to the movies with friends tomorrow night. Then shesays, "You've seen that Bake-Off show, right? The one with JonathanScott?"

"Yeah, a few minutes here and there." I'm distracted, reading mynotes, following a checklist even after three years in business. I stillfear forgetting a step, or an entire bread. Each tick of the box is a pinprickin my billowing anxiety, releasing it so I won't explode. Baguettedough next. Flour, salt, and yeast first.

"Do you like it?"

I shrug, thermometer in a bowl of water. Perfect at 40 degreesFahrenheit. I add it to the flour mixture. "It's fine, I guess."

"Have you ever thought about being on it?"

"No," I say with a snort. "Why would I?"

"I don't know," Gretchen says, and then runs her hand over hermouth while continuing to speak, mashing her words back againsther lips.

I stop. "What?"

"I said, promise not to fire me."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Gretchen, what in the world were you thinking?"

She throws her hands up. "I don't know. I was watching a few weeksago and there was this lady on, baking these rather anemic bagels, allpale and puffy and misshapen, and I was like, 'Liesl could do so muchbetter than that!' So I checked out the website, and all I had to do wasfill out a form and attach a couple photos and, well ... tell me you'renot too angry."

"Don't worry. Do you know how many bakeries probably applyto be on that show? There's little to no chance they'll pick us. Soyou're safe." I smirk. "But if Jonathan Scott does come calling, thenI'll fire you."

Gretchen laughs with me. "I'd gladly be fired for a chance to meethim. Even you can't help but notice how stinking good looking he is."

"Get out of here. I don't pay overtime."

Quiet now, alone, I add wood to the oven, a blend of oak andcherry. It will burn all night, until Xavier comes at three a.m. to extinguishit, enough heat held in the bricks to bake all morning. On theproofing table, four troughs of dough wait for me. They're for my wildyeast breads—sourdoughs—and I let no one work with them but me.The starter I use is more than eighty years old, cultured by my grandmotherand brought from Germany when she came here, widowed,her nine-year-old daughter in tow. Even when I wasn't baking—runningfrom the memory of bread, of my mother, of the warm, brownscent I associated with everything I'd lost in my life—I still kept thatstarter in a jar in the back of my refrigerator and fed it. Sometimesnot as often as I should; once half a year passed before I unscrewedthe lid and mixed fresh flour in with the pungent, yeasty slime it hadbecome. And there was a time when I needed to leave it in foster carefor an extended period. But I always came back to it, and it alwaysresurrected, those not-quite-animal, not-quite-plant organisms wakingto feed again. So I covet this part of the bread making, each loafimprinted with a bit of my mother's soul.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Stones for Bread by Christa Parrish. Copyright © 2013 Christa Parrish. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Thomas Nelson Publishers
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1401689019
• ISBN 13: 9781401689018
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 336