Wifely Panic

As I write, I am munching on a slice of the best sourdough bread known to humankind, slathered in real butter. And that will probably be the last inclusive and gender-sensitive comment I will make in this post because I am asserting that it is a wife’s role to panic. This claim is not politically correct and verges on misogyny, but it’s true. I’ve spent nearly fifty years in marriage, wishing my wife would stop panicking before I realized that she was just doing her job.

My wife is very good at this job. Sure, she panics at ordinary things like snakes, spiders, giant flying insects, etc. Did I mention snakes? However, the situations requiring panic go far beyond those mundane phobias. For instance, she panics over our car’s fuel level, which has saved us from several roadside misadventures despite my best efforts. She panics over my slovenly dress code, which has helped me to avoid considerable public humiliation whether I knew it or not. She panics over general courtesies like thank you notes and Christmas cards, which has helped me to stay in good graces with many people whether I wanted to or not. All in all, my wife’s work at panicking has served me rather well. And I’m pretty sure God gave wives this role so that husbands get something done in the world. We all know what that means, whether we admit it or not.

The situation that gave rise to this blog post came as a panicky communication from my wife, who loudly stated that she would never bake sourdough bread again. I headed directly to the kitchen on a mission to bring her soothing counsel and to snag a piece of freshly baked bread. The crisis was that the two golden brown loaves wafting heavenly smells had moderately large cracks along their bases. She claimed that they looked like space stations, not bread. Puzzled by the nature of the catastrophe, I decided to calm her by immediately cutting into the loaf with the most extensive crack. I tried to help by assuring her that the crack tasted as wonderful as the rest of the slice. Although this didn’t end her panic, it seemed to swing her in a desirable direction. She began to talk about future bread-baking methodology. I immediately assured her that the best way to overcome bread cracks was to bake lots and lots of bread. I’m not sure this self-serving comment impacted the emergency, but hope springs eternal.

Reflecting on this latest panic over bread baking, I realized another important principle. Wives get genetic traits from their mothers-in-law. I know some classy science types out there will take issue with this, but we husbands know it’s true. The sourdough bread panic is a perfect example of the wives inheriting from their mothers-in-law, and I have the documentation to prove it.

In her book Your Alaskan Daughter, my mom wrote about a bread-baking fiasco that demonstrates where my wife got her bread panic tendencies. I will quote most of the story in this post, and yes, this is a shameless promotion of the book that Midwestern Books will be republishing in December this year. As a setup for this long quotation, I should mention that the little cottage my parents rented in the tiny village of Hope, Alaska, where they moved in 1953, had been used as a weekend café for several years. The owners encouraged my folks to keep the little business going. My paternal grandmother, who went with my parents that first summer in Alaska, was enthusiastic about the idea, but Mom was not so keen on it. Here is what she wrote to her college roommates about the adventure on July 2, 1953.

“Mom Walker is a bundle of energy, and she was a great help on our difficult trip up over the Alcan. However, I admit that we didn’t see eye to eye about the café enterprise. As the first weekend approached, Mom Walker’s plans got specific. In high gear, she began making a variety of pies. Then she made dough for sandwich buns. That first weekend, three men stopped in. Their presence constituted the rush hour. Favorable comments on the pie paled before their appreciation of the sandwich buns. I walked around pouring coffee and listening to their happy comments. Great! The next weekend was much the same. Mom’s buns made the sandwiches something special.

The little café sign outside our cottage didn’t bring droves of people. The truth was quite the contrary. Yet it has to be admitted that we Walkers had great leftovers. Harold began to realize that this café plan might have unforeseen benefits. Things went fine until the fateful day when Mom again had a chance for a several-day visit with Elsie in Wasilla. I protested that this time she would be gone over the weekend. “Don’t worry, Harriet. You can handle everything just fine.”

I decided to make the buns first. I would do them a day ahead. The pies would thus be oven-fresh on café opening day. I mixed up the bread dough. I kneaded it and put it to rise. I hovered over that dough. Was it rising fast enough? I tasted a pinch from underneath the smooth ball of dough. Was it salty enough? Had I killed the yeast? I tasted another pinch of dough. I punched down the dough for the second rising. I thought that the dough lay there lifeless. It was my apprehension that began to rise. By now I was convinced that the bread would be a flop. What was I going to do?

Then I realized that I still had time to start over. My spirits lifted. But there was the matter of the dough on hand. Starting over would cost more, and the café enterprise was still not coming out even in the cash department. Of course, I wouldn’t lie about it, but I preferred, strongly preferred, that nobody know about the fiasco. With buoyed spirits, I assured myself that I could do it right the second time. So how to get rid of the evidence? A sudden inspiration came—the outhouse. I took that batch out and dumped it down the largest of the vaunted three holes.

With great relief, I returned to the cottage to compose myself. Before I began the new batch of buns, I needed to visit the outhouse. I glanced down into the hole, which had recently received my dough. An ominous sight greeted me. The dough was alive. It was alive and growing. Horror filled me.

I retreated to the kitchen to grapple with this new threat. No insight arrived. Against my own will, I returned to the outhouse. The bread was still pulsing with life. Panic fueled my imagination. What if the dough continued to grow unceasingly? It would take over the outhouse and make its presence known as it crawled down the path toward our cottage. Perhaps it would slowly ooze along the village toward the schoolhouse. All those children and their parents would know about my disaster. I struggled with berserk fantasies as I fled the scene.

Time and again I went out to check on the new menace. I no longer hoped that I could conceal my sin from Harold. I just hoped he would come home in time to fight back the bread dough and comfort the mother of his future child.

Before he came home, however, the bread dough had finally stopped its menacing growth and slowly sank down into a sullen heap. I couldn’t garner the courage to start another batch and just crawled into bed. However, when Harold saw me in such a state, he calmly walked to the front of the cottage and took down the café sign.”

See what I mean? It’s a precise genetic match. I can attest that Mom continued to bake bread for much of her life, although not with the relish that I remember Grandma Annie had for it. Nevertheless, I’m confident my wife will continue her sourdough adventure well into our future. My palate is counting on it.

It helps to remember that panicking is a wifely prerogative and must be respected. Patience and calm are rare resources for most of us, but I’ve become convinced that it is part of my husbandly duty to follow my dad’s example and take down the café sign.