The Blessings of Bread

My future should have been clear to me from the start.

From the time I was tall enough to stand on a kitchen stool and stir a pie filling or dip a finger into a pan of Mama’s fudge, I was destined to cook.

Everybody in our town of Troy, Alabama, knew it.

“Sister,” they’d say—I’m called Sister because my older sister couldn’t pronounce my real name when I was born—“want to come over and make okra patties?” Would I lend a hand with the chicken salad for the church picnic? Could I brush melted butter on my grandmother Gommey’s yeast rolls so they turned golden brown in the oven?

Of course! Cooking was what my grandmother and the other ladies in the neighborhood—Miss Pat and Miss Ann and MayMay—did, and they took me under their wing.

They showed me how to cool a custard and separate an egg and knead any dough so it was smooth as silk. Sunday lunches at Gommey’s after church were a highlight of the week.

I especially loved the smell of those Parker House-style rolls of hers—the most wonderful aroma would rise up from her oven, waft over the dishes on her sideboard and fill the whole house. It was like a second Sunday sermon calling me on the path God meant for me. If only I’d followed!

What I wanted to do was sell furniture like my daddy. In college I majored in interior design and learned all about how to run a decorating business.

Sure, I still made fudge and rolls, but just for friends and beaus. There’s nothing like some down-home cooking for a homesick college boy. I got married to one of those fellas and settled down back home in Troy to work in Daddy’s store.

Still, people were always asking me to cook for them. “Sister,” they’d say, “I’m having a dinner party on Saturday. Could you bake up four pans of your rolls for me?”

Word travels fast in a small town, and soon I was catering the whole dinner. “Sister, you did such a great party the other night…could you do one for me?”

I was working hard selling furniture, but what everybody wanted was my rolls. They were in such demand at our church bazaar that I went from baking 20 pans to 300!

Then my marriage ended. At 40, I found myself a single mom of two girls, and I worried my income from working at Daddy’s store wasn’t enough to support them. I felt so alone.

“God, I can’t do this on my own,” I prayed. “I’m in your hands now.”

The answer came back: Trust me, Sister. There’s one thing you love doing more than anything else. Do that. I knew he meant Gommey’s rolls. Could I really make a living out of them?