"Anna dam'er" Bread

On Christmas Eve, I made the food that is probably most special to me.

Growing up, my Grandma always made Anadama bread for holidays. I'm not sure what it is about this bread...but it's amazing. This was my first time making it, but I felt a very strong urge to make it for one main reason. This was the first Christmas without my Grandma, who passed this September. I am not exaggerating when I say that she was the glue of our family. I should note that when I say family, I mean the 50+ members of our family. My Grandma and Grumpy (as we call my grandfather) had 10 kids, who in turn procreated and gave them 29 grandkids. Those grandkids are now having kids...anyway- you get the picture- my family is huge. For such a big family, we are all very close and I think we were dreading thinking of spending the holiday without her. 

I wanted to make the bread to feel closer to her again. I realized that this may be the last holiday eating the Andama bread. If I do indeed have to go gluten free, than this will be the food I will miss the most.

My grandma would always burn a batch for my grandfather, saying that he always liked the burnt ones. Now, I've wondered for years if this is true. I'm thinking that the story may be that she burned a batch once and he said to her, "Oh, don't worry honey, I like the burned ones." Alas, for as long as I can remember, he likes his andama bread burned. 

Being a historian, I was curious about the history of this beloved bread, so I did a little search on a historical newspaper database that I subscribe to. The Troy Record from Troy, New York, had an article on November 21, 1963 that stated: "The story of Anadama Bread is a New England legend. For those who don't know it, the story goes that a Rockport, Mass, fisherman, tired of the corn meal mush and molasses his wife, Anna, gave him for supper every night, decided to do something about it. Muttering "Anna dam'er" he mixed the molasses much with flour, added some yeast and baked it into bread. And to this day, corn meal-molasses bread is called Anadama Bread." 

It seems fitting that a recipe that is a New England legend would be made for years by a New England legend.

While I don't want to give away the family recipe (although, you could easily google and find versions of it), the ingredients are:

King Arthur's Flour
Corn meal
Water
Yeast
Grandma's Molasses 
Butter (more than one person should ever consume.)

For some reason, it always had to be King Arthur's Flour. Store brand or any other brand would just not do. 

And, for some reason, Grandma's molasses was always the brand of molasses. Quite fitting.

The bread takes hours to bake. It requires letting it rise two times, the first for 90 minutes. All told, I started making it around 8:30 AM and finished around 1:00 PM. 

For my first time making it, I made a triple batch, just as Grandma would. And, I had to call my mom about three times to ask her questions. In the last decade or two, when my grandmother started to become too weak for the physical labor that is making and baking the anadama bread, my mom took over making it. I grew up watching my mom make it and she taught me all the tricks along the way. My mom has since passed the torch to my cousin, who also does a wonderful job upholding the memory of my grandma. 

I learned some things: that my electric oven does not distribute the heat as evenly as I thought it would and that I should move the pans around next time. I found that I can never have enough butter. I'll need to make sure that the oven is on the lowest possible temperature so it doesn't start to cook when it rises. 

The final product turned out pretty good. Out of the three pans and 40+ rolls that it yielded, 1/2 of two pans came out tasting moist and delicious. I say 1/2 of two pans, because the unevenness of the electric oven burned only one side of the pan. 

On Christmas Eve we had my immediate family over: my brother and their girlfriends, my mom, my dad and his girlfriend, and some close family friends. We had a turkey dinner with all the trappings... and with the andama bread. My mom was very proud of me, and we exchanged glances as we passed it around the table for everyone to try. We both know the labor and the love that goes into baking the bread.

Even if I have to gluten free, I will still bake this bread for the enjoyment of others. Baking Andama bread is a true labor of love and I want to teach my own daughters how to make it. I want to answer their phone calls years down the road when they have questions about the right temperature or how much butter to use. In a way, I suppose my grandma will be immortal- through the love of good bread.

A Dear John letter

Dear Pizza,

First, I'd like to start off by saying that this may be the hardest letter that I've ever written. Please don't think that this will be easy for me, for it is far from the case.

I would totally say the whole, "it's not me, it's you" bit... but it kind of is you. I can't deny that. And, it kind of is me. Let's just call a spade a spade and say that we are both to blame for this situation.

You see, pizza, I don't want to have to give you up. I love you. Very much. I don't want to have to give up something that I genuinely enjoy, but eating you could be dangerous to my overall health and well being since you are chock-full of gluten.

Because I don't have time to create a nice video montage of our experiences together, I would like to take a moment to think back on the fond memories that I have of you:

1. I love you in all forms. English muffin pizzas baked in the oven. Ellio's brand frozen pizza that I grew up with as a kid. I love you when you are delivered. I love you baked in a brick oven. And, even in this new fangled flatbread form. 

2. Let's just marvel for a second at the simplicity of your ingredients. Dough. Tomato sauce. Cheese. I mean, what's not to love about that? Simple, yet elegant. That's your style, and I appreciate that. 

3. Please don't take this the wrong way, but... you're easy. 

4. You have been there for me through thick and thin. I vividly remember moving into our first home just a few years ago. We ordered delivery, opened the box on the floor, and ate right there since we didn't have plates or furniture yet. My oldest daughter was just a year old at the time and was running around holding onto your crust for dear life as she explored the house that we now call home. Hey- how about those times in college when I was pretty darn intoxicated? You were the food of choice for my roommates and I, and I swear that you never tasted better. You were there for me through breakups with boyfriends, for my kids' birthday parties, for lunches with my colleagues, and for an easy meal when we were too tired to cook in those early weeks of parenthood. 

Sure, I can eat gluten free pizza if it comes to that. My favorite place nearby, Sorrentos (see pic below), recently sported a sign offering that choice. I do know that there are "plenty of fish in the sea," and I appreciate those type of well meaning comments. I have said them myself. But...let's face it, it's not the same.

So, dear pizza, this is it. I will cherish our time together and the memories that we have made. 

Pizza. Oh, pizza. I will miss you. 

Sincerely,

K

It's black bean burger day!

This post was from last Thursday- just getting around to posting it now:

Thursday, December 11:

My first day of my gluten journey.

For lunch, I enjoyed my favorite gluten filled meal at school.

First, let me preface this with a brief discussion of the fact that I’m a teacher. My school lunch program is perhaps the best in the state. Our Chef, whom everyone calls Chef Paul, is a truly unique man. He has been serving healthy foods for years, long before Mrs. Obama instituted school lunch reforms. On any given day, lunch can range from quiche, to tofu stir fry, to black bean burgers. There is a soup served everyday, and we have sides offered like watermelon salad with feta cheese and spearmint. Obviously, you can tell that there is no such thing as mystery meat at my school! 

And, what makes Chef Paul even more amazing is that he buys local as much as he can. He goes to local farms and buys "bruised fruit" or smaller fruit and veggies that otherwise may not get sold in the farm stands. He saves money this way, and supports local agriculture. One student even made a mini-documentary about the school lunch program. If you have about 20 minutes- I highly recommend it. 

So, naturally, I tell Chef Paul about my possible celiac diagnosis. What I love about him is that he totally gets it. He's a foodie, he recognizes that I am a foodie, and he imagines what life might be like without it. He commiserated with me for a few minutes and even offered to let me know when he makes gluten free meals and to put one aside for me at lunchtime. He's truly one-of-a-kind. 

Lunch today happens to be my favorite- black bean burger. It is served on a wheat bun with lettuce, tomato, and a chipotle mayonnaise. I never tried a black bean burger before working here- but, I am a true convert. I've recreated the recipe at home and it is a wonderful, meat-free, and healthy meal.

In my future, gluten-free life, I won't be able to eat Chef Paul's black bean burger because it has breadcrumbs in it. Now, I could definitely recreate it at home and find a substitution for the breadcrumbs, but it's still not the same.

When I taught 8th grade, I would start off the period before lunch with looking online to see what was on the menu for lunch. When it was black bean burger, I would shout out "It's black bean burger day!" and the kids would laugh at me and pretend to race me to the cafeteria at lunch time in order to make sure they weren't all gone. 

I potentially enjoyed my last burger today. I ate alone in my classroom, did a little work while eating, but I made sure to take time to savor and remember each bite. So, here's to you, black bean burger. If gluten free is in my future- well, I will miss you a lot. 

The beginning...

It all began last week.

Home sick, I see a phone call from my doctor. I was in the middle of catching up on my DVR, and grumpily paused Law and Order: SVU in the middle of a plot line twist. The nurse on the phone begins to tell me about my blood work from my physical: good cholesterol, good red blood cells, etc. I am thinking to myself, “Ok- thanks for the call. Let me get back to my stories.” But, then she says that the doctor is concerned about one thing. I have a large amount of something in my blood, which indicates that I have Celiac Disease. Apparently, the normal range is between 0-19, and my count is 32.

The nurse goes on and says that the best thing to do is to go to see a gastroenterologist, where they will do an endoscopy and take a biopsy of my intestines to confirm it. If I do have Celiac, then I will have to maintain a gluten free lifestyle.

Ok- so not the end of the world, you say. Gluten free is manageable. People do it all the time. Restaurants have gluten free menus. Grocery stores are selling gluten free stuff all over the place. Totally not the end of the world.

And, you’d be right. Except, I love me some gluten. Like, LOVE.

In fact, I love food of any kind. I love cooking it, eating it, trying new kinds…I love food so much that my specialty is culinary history. I am a historian – almost done with my master’s degree. My thesis has to do with culinary history. I read food history books and historical cookbooks for pleasure.

I don’t love food just because I’m a fatty. I associate food with memories. For example, I remember the first date that I went on with my husband- what restaurant we went to, what I ate, what I didn’t eat. (In case you’re wondering: I purposely didn’t eat anything pasta related with long noodles. I didn’t want to have to handle the noodles while trying to make conversation with this hot guy I was trying to impress.)

I remember the anadama bread that my grandma always made for each holiday. She always overcooked a batch for my grandfather because she said that he liked them that way. I remember the first time my oldest daughter ate one of my "famous" grilled cheese sandwiches and how she gobbled it up. I took a picture of her eating it and sent it to my college roommate to prove that indeed, everyone loved my grilled cheese.

Just as pictures do, food has memories that are attached to it. People remember food: the flavor, the smell, the texture, where they were when they ate it, and who they were with. Food is a human necessity and as humans, we have been able to make modifications to it in order to make it more palatable and enjoyable to eat. I enjoy testing out new recipes, making modifications accordingly, and enjoy the memories that go along with it.

For me, this whole Celiac Disease possibility wasn’t good news.

So, naturally, I do what any normal person does when they hear this news…I turn to google. I look up Celiac Disease, I start looking at things that contain gluten. I then call my husband to tell him that I got an interesting call from the doctor. After taking a minute to reassure him that it wasn’t THAT phone call and that I am not pregnant, I tell him about this potential gluten-free new life I’ll (read: we’ll) have to lead. Like me, he thinks that this is going to be a major shift in our lifestyle.

I sit on this news for a little while. I digest it. I take it all in and mull it over.

I am downstairs later that night, feeding my girls some dinner. Pasta…figures.

I start looking through my cupboards at all the types of food we eat. Gluten. Gluten. Gluten.

I look at the post it hanging on the cupboard. Here’s a picture:

This outlines everything that we are eating for dinner this week. (Organizational freak, you ask? Why, yes, I am.)

Everything contains gluten. Like, everything we are eating for dinner.

This would be the point where it hit me, and I start crying. I cry for the Bertucci’s rolls I may not be able to eat and the memories of hanging with my cousin on a “sick day” from work over glasses of sangria. I cry for pizza from Sorrentos that I won’t be able to enjoy with my colleagues on early release days from school. I cry for my grandma’s recipe for anadama bread that I won’t be able to make. Every time I bite into one, it reminds me of her. She’s gone, and I can’t even enjoy that memory. I cry for brownies, cookies…I just cry.

But, my husband gently reminds me that we don’t know anything for sure yet. So, we order Chinese food. With extra gluten.

Later that night, I’m in bed, and my mind is racing. I decide that I am going to live it up. Until my appointment with the gastroenterologist, I am going to eat gluten to my heart’s content. I am going to savor every last bite, knowing that it could be my last.

I am going to take pictures of it, and document my last days with gluten.

And- if these aren’t my last days- sweet. But, if they are, I will do what everyone else does when they are not given a choice about something: I am going to learn to live with it. I will buy gluten free cookbooks, I will go to support groups for Celiacs, and I will somehow learn to make my grandma’s anadama rolls without gluten so that I can still think of her whenever I eat them. If and when that time comes, I will make new food memories. In the meantime, I will enjoy every last bit of gluten that I can.