I was searching through my utensil drawers for a bread knife--the serrated edged one that can cut through fresh, homemade bread. For a moment, I wondered if I still had one. There it was in the back of the drawer. Wow! A long time since I've made homemade bread I thought. I told the kids the bread had just come out of the oven if they wanted some. They came running and jumped up on the bar stools in time to watch me slice through it. They oohed and aahed over steam pouring out after each cut into the bread. While I spread the butter and watched it melt they wanted to know who was going to get a slice first.
I smiled and looked up at their eager faces. The memory catapulted me back to a time and place when I remember my mom baking fresh bread. She would do it all of the time. It was usually wheat bread and we loved it when Mom called and told us the bread was ready. It would be good later, but it was never as good as when it came out of the oven. We could only hope she would have her homemade jam to go with it.
Madison had butter all over her face; Porter was eating every bite; and Lane carefully removed the crust from his bread. I wondered if some day at some time they would be eating homemade bread and then would think of me. What little time capsule memories was I putting together today to be released at some other time? What precious gems they are; and what short time we have. It was just bread, and it was just butter; but 30 years later I can still feel the warmth of Mom's bread fresh out of the oven.
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