Saying Grace: Almond Poppyseed Bread or "Ode to My Mother"

I crawled up into the green-and-white pinstripe chair my mother was sitting in. Its overstuffed arms and high back enveloped us. We pulled the time-worn quilt around us, its intermittent red triangles making a flying geese pattern on its white sky. Snowflakes fell in large clumps outside the family room window and piled up in tufted inches upon the hanging bird feeder. Yet we were cozy and warm with our tightly-wrapped quilt and roaring fire in the wood stove, my mother's arm slipped comfortably over mine as I rested happily in the crook of it.

I snuggled in deeply for a good read as the first few words of our favorite book sounded out in my mother's soft voice, "There were three of them: the old woman, Merry; the old man, Grumble; and Johnny, the bound-out boy. They lived in a log cabin, t'other side of Tip Top Mountain."

My mother is the one who taught me to love the written word, to stop and chew on a well-constructed sentence and relish in a perfectly chosen descriptor. I learned to love a good book while sitting on her lap, hearing her love for children's literature in the way she spoke every word. Some books we read stick out clearly in my memory, but mostly I remember the way it felt to be close to her, the way her eyes lit up when I brought her a favorite book, the way her voice moved up and down and in and around the words, speaking life into them.

She is the one who taught me to read. I remember the awe and power I felt as the pages of my first books sprang to life under her guidance.

She is the one who would tell us stories on the way to Maine from her childhood, weaving a spell-binding tale from the simple scenes in her memory. We'd split laughing in the backseat while she talked of family canoe trips in the pouring rain and of when Grandpa scared Uncle Bill silly.

She is the one who would read from the passenger's seat, laughing to herself until we begged her to share what was so funny. Time on the highway sped ahead as we listened to tales of Maine life from "We Took to the Woods" and "My Love Affair with the State of Maine."

She is the one who journaled back and forth with my sister, writing her poems to read to her second-grade class at school. Sweet little things about spaghetti and snow and the constant bow on Lacey's pretty blonde head.

She is the one who prompted my father to start reading aloud to us adolescent girls. Family jokes sprang up from our evenings of reading "Wind in the Willows." And "Little Britches" became a family legend when my father laughed so hard that he cried reading how Ralph Moody couldn't keep the cows out of the alfalfa patch.

She is the one who bought me a big, empty book in high school, encouraging me to fill it with my own writings. She smiled as I read her stories that I had written about kayaking on the Kennebec or busy-body Birdie Belle.

She taught me to love the Word Made Flesh, to seek Him and delve deeply into Scripture. I would often walk into the room to see her, with Bible and journal open, studying and learning and enjoying Him.

She is the one who bought me a children's book every year for Christmas, even through college, choosing carefully something that reflected events or growth from my year. She filled her future grandchildren's library with excellent books. Books with beautiful illustrations and thoughtfully chosen words.

She is the one who reads every blog post I write.

Now, it is Sunday and I am tired after a long morning at church. The baby is asleep and my little boy is paused at the bookshelf. He brings me "Journey Cake, Ho!" and I silently question my resolution to always read to him when he asks. He crawls into my lap, snuggling close and I can smell the sweetness of his hair. His eyes look up at me with delight and his little body wiggles with anticipation. I open the book and begin to read, "There were three of them: the old woman, Merry; the old man, Grumble; and Johnny, the bound-out boy. They lived in a log cabin, t'other side of Tip Top Mountain." I can hear my mother's voice coming out of my own, the way it moves up and down and in and around the words. And I smile as I hope that my little ones comes to love them as much as I do.

"Children are made readers on the laps of their parents."

~Emilie Buchwald~

Almond Poppyseed Bread

Makes 2 loaves

Total Time: 1 1/2 hours

3 cups flour

3 T. poppyseeds

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

2 1/4 cups sugar

1 1/2 tsp. salt

1 1/2 cups milk

1 1/4 cups vegetable oil