If I had a photo of the finished loaf you’d see the love and laughted embodied in its imperfect not very risen substance.

I made bread with my grandchildren last night. Their mom and dad were out on a date and my granddaughter decided, as we’d just picked up a bag of fresh milled flour from Flourist that afternoon, that NOW was the time to create.

All of us.

Her. Me. Her brother.

Her brother had missed out on the first loaf we’d made as he was at school. I was on my way home today and we wouldn’t be able to do it all three before I left.

“YiaYa,” she proclaimed in the imperial voice of an almost three year old. “We must make bread.”

“But you’ll be going to bed soon,” I reminded her.

“No. We must make bread. T (her brother) didn’t get to make it last time.”

Disuading an almost three year old to take a different course is like trying to convince a bad case of diahrrea to stop with just your mind. It ain’t happening.

And so, an hour and a half before bedtime, I hauled out the fresh bag of flour, mixing bowl and cups, yeast, salt and honey and we began.

Oh my! What a beautiful mess we created.

It’s a good thing their cleaner was coming today!

By the time we were through there was flour everywhere, which the children thought hilarious as evidenced by their enthusiastic sweeping of flour across the counter (You don’t want the dough to stick, my grandson informed me. At 5 he is very convinced there is a right way (and wrong) to do everything. The right way is always preferrable unless, of course, its reading his newest story-book about a fish and a crab who can’t get to sleep because the fish won’t quit talking, 3 times, from end to beginning.)

The whole bread-making affair was accompanied by gales of laughter but it was our combined bent over convulsions of laughing when I plopped the ball of dough into the food-processor for kneading and the machine started dancing across the counter and I started racing after it desperately trying to hit the off switch that put us over the top of the laughing richter scale (after I finally made it stop, of course!)

These are the memories I hope they remember. I know I will.

The joy of two pair of tiny hands enthusiastically punching down the dough. Again. And again. And again. And again. Ok. I think it’s good now. NO YiaYa! More!. OK. One more punch. No YiaYa! More! Until all that’s left is a flattened rubbery sheet of weary looking bread dough which ultimately, given the state of the final product, was unable to find enough breath to rise again.

Well, the bread may have come out relatively flat (ok – it definitely wouldn’t meet the height restrictions of any bakery I know of! But it tastes good – just ask my daughter who had to sample it fresh from the oven hot.) – In the end, the laughter and fun we shared was worth every unrisen grain of gluten stretched flour.

I am at the airport now awaiting my flight home.

My heart if full. My heart is sad. My memories taste sweet mixed with a scent of bittersweet sadness that it will be two months before I see them in person. Two months before I receive the incredible warmth and tightness of their hugs and hearing, in person, their beautiful voices yelling, YiaYa!

There’s no volume control on a 3 and 5 year-olds voice level. And I don’t care. It’s all beautiful, messy, life-giving and heart-filling to me!

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One way I’m going to douse the bittersweet sadness is to coach at Discovery Seminars for the next 5 days starting tomorrow morning. Colour me excited!