A Treatise on Pickles, Patience and Bread

Part II

Read Part I here.

By the time the loaves of bread had risen to the tops of the pans and had baked in the oven to a crusty brown, the afternoon was almost gone. “They’re beautiful,” Mother said, as Ginnie cautiously took the pans from the oven.

“They’re done.” Ginnie gave a vast sigh of relief. “But it takes a lot of time.”

When I finally found a reasonably priced copy of Ginnie and the Cooking Contest at Alibris, I ordered it sight unseen. Admittedly, the anticipation with which I waited on its arrival is almost embarrassing. The little girl in me could not wait! Finally it came and oh, the memories of those words and those illustrations. I had to bat away countless sets of hands as I flipped through the pages of this little book. “Can I see it, Mom? May I? Let me, Mommy!”

The little girl in me needed to see it first. It had been many, many years.

The first time Ginnie made homemade bread…the little girl named Susan that Ginnie babysat…the pickles (oh yes, the pickles!) were all there, just as I’d remembered.

It’s not great literature by any stretch and I realized that as I re-read it, but it spoke to the little girl I was and clearly its words and themes have remained with me…

…all these years.

The bread-making metaphor is one that I’ve been chewing on for days now. (Is this post making you hungry yet? You’re in luck! Today’s Fat Tuesday!) I’m not going to say too much about the bread-making that takes place in this book—it’s part of the story’s surprise appeal. I will say, though, that the patience required on Ginnie’s part, both as a baker and a babysitter, speaks even louder to me now then it did then.

Ginnie was a trooper, you see.

I need to be one, too.

The situation was all too clear. A glass of milk lay on its side, milk running down the tablecloth and onto the rug. Susan had backed away, a startled look on her face. Dripping papers in one hand, Mother was mopping with a napkin.

For a long moment Ginnie was speechless. “Are they ruined?” she cried in anguish.

The lesson that I took away from The Gallon Glass Jar of Pickles Mishap is the power—the utter power—of patience. For example, just this morning within the span of a single half hour, I discovered:

• The chocolate syrup used in a breakfast smoothie that one child had spilled on the blender, on the counter and down the door of the cupboard below;

• The glass of water that another child had knocked over on the morning paper;

• The bowl of Cheerios, milk and all, that had been taken away from the kitchen table (where I’d served it) into the sitting room; and

• The box of Christmas ornaments that had been dumped in the basement during play…and left forgotten.

Let’s just say that I could have used my husband right about then with his calming, “Get the dustpan, Maggie.” I muddled my way through as best I could—shedding even, perhaps, a tear of frustration or two—but in the end, it was okay. It was hard, but it was okay.

Yes, I wish my kids were better about cleaning up after themselves. I wish they were better listeners. Perhaps what I’m really wishing here—I’ll admit this to you if not myself—is that my kids weren’t really….kids.

Patience, then, must be one of my goals this Lent. Wish me luck! I’m a work-in-progress! We homemaking moms need hope and prayers; we need patience…

…with the process.

Ad Jesum per Mariam,