Good Bread: The Hopeful Cure-All

I made one tasty loaf of sprouted kamut and spelt sourdough bread yesterday. Sour, but not too sour; moist, but not like Betty Crocker’s infamous cake that squishes between the fork tongs moist; and sliceable so I can toast it with ease. Ahhh, the joy of basking in the light of perfection. Until at least Saturday, that is, when I bake a loaf for the family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Can I repeat this success? Am I a one-trick pony? What if I fail?

I am actually exaggerating these voices right now. Oh, my inner Doubting Thomasina is there alright but not loud enough to be too much of a distraction. It is just that she knows when I am most vulnerable and a family visit is high on that list.

Families tend to be a touchy point for most of us, especially when we are dealing with our codependent parts. After all, it is usually the place where they first came to be. I, for one, learned at an early age that if I wanted attention I needed to be someone different than who I was. I created a lot of different parts to achieve this attention: an entertainer and a sickly part, a tough and independent part and one that was good as gold, to name a few. I was protean in my abilities to get my needs met— reaching out towards others in however they needed me to be, or what I thought they needed me to be. There was always the hope that if I was funny, sick, hardy or quiet enough, I would be safer, more loved or just plain accepted. The result, of course, is that I negated my true self. I became a master at being anything but who I was.

Back to this coming weekend, I am going to be visiting people that I love but also people who tend to see only parts of myself — notably the parts I showed them in my early days of attention seeking. Some of my family see me as a bit too sensitive, others see me as not quite able while some view me as a bit of a show off (my entertainment sojourns tended to backfire). And, unfortunately, parts of me (uhhh, that would be my codependent parts) are seeing them through the eyes of my childhood. These parts still see members of my family as people I have to please somehow or risk abandonment. Huh. Seems like I am the one that has to change. “Bother,” as pooh would say.

Oh well, if the bread is bust, wont be the first less than worthy loaf of bread baked and besides, I have a contingency plan. If need be, there is a good bakery up the road that can provide.