My first attempt at Grandpa’s cardamom bread was terrible.
The loaf came out heavy and uneven.
For a moment, I heard my mother’s old voice.
You were never going to succeed.
I almost threw the bread away.
Then I remembered Grandpa eating my crooked loaf when I was nine.
“It’s bread. It’ll still taste wonderful.”
I tried again.
The next loaf was better.
The third was good enough to share with Lois.
She took a bite and smiled.
“Not bad.”
Then she added something unexpected.
“You bake like you’re afraid someone will take it away.”
I stared at her.
She was right.
For years, I’d worked as though every mistake proved my mother correct.
That evening, I opened Ingrid’s recipe cards again.
Grandpa had written little notes along the margins.
Instructions about oven temperature.
Dough texture.
When to rotate the pans.
I followed them carefully.
