I grew up with mom making bread. My earliest memories were of her in the kitchen kneading dough in an off-white and blue giant bowl that would break your foot if you dropped it. Then she'd throw a dish towel over it and tell me we had to wait for it to rise. I had no idea what that meant. I remember running to the kitchen every 10 minutes to "see if the bread had rose." I am sure my mother tried to explain it to me but I was too hard headed and too excited to listen. Eventually, I would get distracted like all little kids do and forget to check-this was, of course, always when the bread would magically rise.

Mom would let me "punch it down." I would wash my hands and stand in the kitchen chair and beat it down flat. She told me not to eat the dough -- I did it anyway. Then she divided it into 3 loaf pans and, again, covered it with a dish cloth to "let it rise."

When it was done rising and baked, she brushed it with butter, let it cool, then wrapped it in plastic wrap (colored if we had it at the time). If it was around Christmas time, we would load up my little red wagon and walk to deliver bread to the neighbors.

There was always a loaf left over for us. I remember eating it plain or, my mother's favorite way -- toasted in the oven with a slice of off the block cheddar cheese. 

As I got older, moved out, got married-I missed the bread. Mama gave me the recipe and the first time I made it, I must have called her 100 times - The starter blew the lid off the container it was in; this bowl of dough has doubled its size in an hour and I think it is going to explode; I forgot I had already punched it down this morning so the entire batch has risen twice and I haven't even split it into pans yet; the list goes on. We laughed. We spend hours on the phone discussing what I did right and what I did wrong, whether it would be good or not, and how to fix it next time. For record, the bread was fine-and these were some of the best adult memories I have with my mom.

The same kitchen makes the bread. The same ceramic bowl-which now appears substantially smaller and not quite as heavy-holds the dough, the recipe has stayed the same and the love has not changed-but the people have. 

I lost mom, suddenly, in 2021. I wasn't ready, I could have used a lot more time with her. When you lose someone you love so deeply, you just don't know what to do with yourself. I was a stay at home mom at the time, the kids had just gone back to school after a year of school from home due to covid. When I wasn't taking care of the kids or with Dad, I was wringing my hands. So, I made bread. I made 9 loaves of bread in 2 days and cried through the whole process-but I felt better when I was done. 

That year, I made bread until I just could not make any more. We gave it to family and friends, the neighbors, the people who loved mom. Since then, I've kept making it, any time I wanted it, any time someone asked for it, any time my soul needed it. 

This year, people started sharing their wild cinnamon roll ideas. Cookie Butter Sourdough Cinnamon Rolls appeared on my news feed way to often. More than once I considered ordering some and driving halfway across the state to pick them up. Then, one day I had a wild thought: I know how to make the bread...why can't I use the same dough to make cinnamon rolls. 

The rest is now history. Mom's sourdough bread was actually destined to be a cinnamon roll all along. I only wish she could be here to make them with me. It was this thought that chose the name - Glenda's Kitchen (it is her kitchen after all) by Mary (that's me!)

~Mary Harrison Crawford