How It Began...

If it is possible to become addicted to aromas from the womb, I believe that is where my love of baking developed.  My grandmother, my mother, my aunt...all amazing bakers. From an early age, I can recall the melody of the clanging pots and utensils, the whimsical whirring of the magical mixer, the wonderful aromas of flavors blending together in divine baked harmony.  Being of Slovak descent and Catholic meant that there were traditional baked goods for each liturgical season of the church.  I am literally going to have to fill this page with explanations if I continue using accurate church dialogue and since my focus is on baking, not religion, this is where these references end.  Although, I would like to give a huge fist bump to the Almighty Baker above for passing on the amazing baking skills onto my ancestors and me.   

How I looked forward to each of the seasonal baking days, but by far my favorite has to be the magical and mystical Easter bread, Paska.  The absolute longing for it may be due to the whole fasting Lenten season the weeks preceding Easter where Catholics fast and give up something of pleasure as a symbolic sacrifice. As a child, my sacrifice was consistently some sort of sugary treat. And, if I'm being honest, not my favorite sugary treat.  I tended to pick something horrid, like those circus peanut candies or something equally as dreadful.  I digress.  I will do that alot.  Try to keep up.  So this amazing bread is molded and baked in the sacred shape of the crown of thorns.  If you are not Catholic, that must sound ominous and possibly not even edible.  Oh, but this bread, contrary to weight of its representation, is quite light and airy and blesses your taste buds with incredible buttery essence. 

During the Advent season, we looked forward not only to Christmas coming, but to my second favorite traditional family dessert treat, Kolache. Mention that word in front of any of my family members and they will be reduced to mere mumblings and moans, "mmmmm, and omgggg".  Their faces will contort into expression of lustful sinners! Oh, don't be so coy, you know what I speak of.  If you don't, bless your heart.  These tantalizing traditional treats will change your life.  They are pressed pastry presents chock full of flavorful fillings and then generously dunked in powdered sugar while still slightly warm so that the sugar forms a luxurious coat.  Sugar addicts, the lot of us!

As a child, I enthusiastically enjoyed the end result of this baking process, yet I longed to be part of the process. I wanted to dig into the flour, combine ingredients in the magical mixer and create masterpieces from the mess of sticky dough.  I wanted the magic baking powers too!  Sadly, it wasn't time yet or so I kept hearing.  "When you get older" was the response received.  As a mother of five, my Mom didn't have the time or tolerance for any of us sharing her modest kitchen space. She would allow us a ball of dough at the table.  I usually ate mine.  It makes me laugh to think of that now.  I think I needed to taste the flavors I was smelling.  That is my theory and I'm sticking to it.  

When we visited my grandmother, who we fondly called Baba, an endearing Slovak name for grandmother, she would allow us dough at the table also.  But then, one summer, my older sister and I spent a couple weeks with her.  Just us.  That is when it happened. I was able to touch her distinguished bread wand, the rolling pin.  I was absolutely elated and honored to the highest level.  We wore aprons she hand made for herself from scraps of worn dresses.  She had to wrap the strings around our waists a few times to fit, but I didn't care.  On my knees in the shiny red chair, shoved snuggly up to the tableside, which may as well have been a baking alter in my mind at that time, is where I was indoctrinated.  I cannot remember what I did five minutes ago, but I can recall every delicious detail of that day.  On that day, the desire was born. It wasn't until later in life that I realized how much I needed to embrace that desire.  Here I am, 51 years young, a mother and a grandmother now myself.  And yet, I am but a grown child eager to create masterpieces in Baba's Bakeshop.