Another day, another rye bread

Yes, it's rising in the oven now. When the timer goes off I'll bake it for 45 minutes and then you're all invited over. Peggela, that means you! She's our new weekend phone greeter.

Seven people came to my free breadmaking class at Abington Free Library. I got paid. The check is sitting unopened in my backpack.

This class was for kids. I bring nametags and pasted one on my green Starbucks apron. "Ruth." What? I should write Iris?

As they came in, I'd write a tag. For example, the girl said her name was Sophia.

Hi, Sophia, I said. Is that spelled the regular way?

Yes, she said.

A little boy was next.

And what's your name? I asked

Qatir, he said, spelled the regular way.

The class lasts 90 minutes. I always bring in the dough I'd prepared that morning, show them how to punch it down, then divide it into loaves, and let it rise 15 minutes, then pop it into the oven in the adjoining kitchen.

We eat the hot bread at the end of the class, spread with butter. Alex, who's working on his Boy Scout badge in cooking, didn't like the pumpernickel I'd baked with caraway seed, so I said, I'll finish it for you.

Everyone else gobbled up theirs.

Not a single person in the class had ever heard of caraway seed. I brought in some samples and had them all taste it. I also brought in whole nutmeg and cinnamon for them to see and use in their own breads.

I went around with my nutmeg grater. Call me the Nutmeg Fairy, I said. Every time I came around with ingredients, I'd say, Now I'm the Yeast Fairy. Now I'm the Molasses Fairy, and I'd pour the ingredient in their bowl.

At the end of class, they asked for cinnamon sticks to chew on. Sure, I said, handing them out. They stuck em in their mouths.

It's better than smoking, I said. Erin told me she'd stopped three people from the horrid smoking habit. (My dad died from cancer from smoking. So do two of the characters in my novel.)

Pass me a cinnamon stick.

We ended perfectly on time, as we always do. Very important to begin on time and end on time when you hold a class.

One adult attended the class. Linda taught me something new. I was showing everyone how to knead. "Use the bottom of your hand," I said.

"My grandmother said it was called the HEEL of the hand."

"Wow," I said. The heel of the hand is very strong. The kids were using their fingers a lot, but the heel has come down thru millions of years of evolution as the strong tool that it is. Forget bread machines!

Thank you, Linda.

Before class started I called Arnie from our group to invite him to the class. Arnie's a great cook, always trying new things, including an oven-baked potato latka recipe that came out hard as shoe leather.

He also bakes his own biscuits and breads.

Arnie said he noticed his energy level was decreasing. He wasn't as productive as before. Arnie has bipolar disorder and there's only about one med he's ever taken over the past many many years that's worked: the new Prestiq.

We wondered if it had stopped working or what?

We thought it might help Arnie if he gets regular aerobic exercise at least 20 minutes a day.

He couldn't attend the class since he was taking his grandkids to the movies.

I asked my breadmaking kids if they'd seen any good movies lately. Qatir, spelled the regular way, said he saw an awesome Ninja something movie. Erin was gonna see Alice in Wonderland. Anyone know if it's any good? Where the Wild Things Are was roundly panned.

At the end of the class, Linda and are I chatting. She'd always had trouble, like many people, working with yeast. But she saw, right before her eyes, the yeast working on her bread dough, elevating it, lifting it, rising toward the beautiful March 20 sky.

I told her I run a support group, the largest in the Philadelphia area for folks with depression, bipolar disorder, and their family members.

She interrupted me. Oh, she said. You're Ruth Deming.

We laffed.