Brown Bread.

Dear Reader,

I don't known about you, but I have a number of childhood memories that are inexplicably tied to food: the smell of it, the texture of it, the taste of it.

I remember getting into the car with my mom and and my baby sister for a trip into town for groceries. We'd stop at the little grocery store in my small hometown, and then we'd go across the street to the bakery.

The bakery was very much like all of the other storefronts in town, older, with linoleum floors and a big glass front door. When we pushed open the door, a wave of conversation and fresh-bread smell would rush past our faces. The bakery was also a little cafe, and in the morning-times, the booths were filled with older folks, sipping their coffee and taking big bites of scrambled eggs and donuts.

We'd walk over to the counter, my sister and I, and gaze at the sugary treats behind the glass. If we were lucky (which happened most every week), Mom would let us pick out a donut. In those days, I usually chose a giant glazed one or one filled with raspberry filling.

The real reason for the weekly trip to the bakery, though, was the brown bread. In hindsight, it was probably called something like "Rye," but to my sister and I, and, by extension, to my parents, those tall, chewy loaves were known as Brown Bread. They were, afterall, much darker than the white bread from the store.

The Brown Bread was always wrapped in a plastic bread bag, twisted up with a twist-tie, and, since we usually bought two loaves at a time, they were placed, side-by-side in a rectangular cardboard flat.

Our little bakery always had fresh, beautiful loaves of bread, and that car ride home was filled with the most wonderful smell in the world: absolutely fresh, possibly-still-warm bread. When we got home, Mom would cut us a slice. My favorite was always the slice at the end of the loaf with mostly crust.

For the last couple of months, I've been making a version of that Brown Bread. It's been a wonderful way to know that the bread I'm eating is something very real, and the process of making it is a bi-weekly, end-of-the-week relaxation technique. A nice, slow process that brings the weekly rush to a grinding halt and gives me a few hours to alternately knead and wait until the loaves finally fill the house with a familiar smell.

Life rhythms like this have become much more important lately. Regular life has been a whirlwind, and I find myself needing these moments of routine and simplicity. Dear Reader, please take a moment to breathe this week. Knead some bread dough, walk around the block (if you're in the warm Mid-South like me), sit down with a book for half and hour, or ask those dear ones you live your life with a meaningful question or two. Take several deep breaths and really notice your life for a little while. The everyday, simple things hold so much beauty and promise.