Homemade, Hearthside Memories

Hearth: 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hearth   In archaeology, a hearth is a firepit or other fireplace feature of any period. Initial usage refers to a place of warmth, heat, or fire, or 'heat of earth'.

Fresh from the outdoor oven!

I'm going back home again. It’s the changing-of-the-leaves time.  It’s apple cider and apple butter time. It's Springs Folk Festival time, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.  

It’s true that I've already seen the hundreds of displays, crafts, and craftsmen at this Festival.  I've watched the glass blowing, hewing of logs, sheep shearing, horses on a treadmill, and women quilting.  I've listened to fiddle-playing in the woods, seen apple-butter-making over an open fire, and sat in the building where a play is performed or various groups and families sing and play a diverse assortment of instruments, music and songs. 

I've purchased my share of relics and crafts to use in my home or as gifts. Yet while I’ll enjoy walking the trail and maybe hitching a ride on the hay wagon, I’m really heading home for one reason: to help bake home-mixed, homemade bread in an outdoor oven.




















I am partial to homemade bread. It’s true that I've developed my own repertoire of recipes 

that can bring the house down.  But when it comes to homemade, there’s nothing quite like the

flavor of a slice of fresh bread that’s been baked in an outdoor oven heated with coals fired 

from wood. 

Trust me. I grew up with a bakery in the house and recognize that bread is a specialty all its own.  Couple that hearth-bread flavor with real home-churned Jersey cow butter and Beachy’s homemade apple butter, and you've got a taste with homemade flavor like no other.

to read more about Beachy's apple butter and how to order some, go to:         
  http://beachynews.blogspot.com/2009/10/sam-beachy-sons-apple-butter-pure-home.html

Allen with his apparatus,  He uses antifreeze instead of ice.
Yes, that's a tractor you see;  it's used to provide power to freeze the ice cream.

It certainly helps that I get to work for and with my sisters and family members. It helps that, just down the path, is homemade ice cream I get to eat free 'cause it’s made by my brother Allen, who developed his own ice cream mix and in-vented his own equip-ment to churn out the best homemade ice cream in town.

We smile because the weather affects both of our sales:  if it’s a warm, sunny day, the ice cream gets sold out.  If the temperatures are low or it’s rainy, folks stand around our booth with the outdoor oven to get warm.  One booth or the other is always doing well come Folk Festival day.

As teenagers, we helped in our mother’s bakery as her mixer kneaded sixty-pound tubs of dough to make two-pound loaves of bread.   In earlier Festival years, we helped sell Mrs. Miller’s Homemade Bread at the Festival, and it seemed that people snatched it up more quickly when they learned that this bread came from our home and that it was made by our mother and that we ourselves had helped.  They believed us, for we could explain the procedure step by step and answer all their questions.  I like to think they also believed us because of the evident pride and excitement in our product.

Nebraska Helpers: 

Matt and Loretta Burkey, Rachel
Burkey Miller, and Darla Orendorf Kramer
weighing, shaping, and pricking loaves.

So when I go back home to help in the booth that is run by my sisters, there is again that sense of pride and excitement in this project because we are family. I get to visit with nieces and nephews and their children; I get to rub shoulders with my own kids and my siblings.

Two of my sisters began managing the bread booth at the Folk Festival one year after our mother closed her bakery.  They are assisted by their families, other siblings (one of them is me) and their offspring.  It comes naturally and easily – as naturally as yeast causes bread to rise, as easily as kneading dough after fifty years’ experience, as readily as customers standing in line, waiting for the next batch to come out of the oven.

Alice cleans the bowl that is
used to mix the dough. 

While this outdoor oven has been in use at this Festival since 1987, this will be the fourteenth year that my family is baking the bread.  Each year, the demand increases.  Last year 2232 loaves of bread were mixed, shaped, baked and sold in less than forty hours.  That’s 84 batches of bread dough.  My family, known as Miller, often refers to and does things in batches. 

Our father had his own batches of children.  Born of different mothers, his first and second batch are different. The five sons and four daughters from his first wife are known as the first batch.  The six daughters from the second wife are the second batch. (I belong to the second batch.)  Even today, grandchildren and great-grandchildren ask for explanations and are given answers by explanations as to which batch a person belongs.

Allen with his ice cream making machine.

Allen, our ice-cream-maker brother, is the youngest son of the first batch. We his sisters come from both the first and the second batch and manage the bread booth within sight of the ice cream stand. Bread and ice cream are shared freely among family all day long, and it doesn't matter from which batch you’ve come:  you qualify because you’re family. [If you want to hear from Allen about his machine, click here.]

It is doubtful that my sisters would have undertaken the outdoor oven project had they not had experience in our mother’s bakery. Year after year, baking bread for the Folk Festival was the main Bakery event of the year.  Forty-five years after the Bakery was founded, our mother stopped the mixer and closed the oven doors for the last time.   How many batches, how many loaves of bread were mixed and baked in that room?!  On normal weeks, five or six hundred loaves of bread were delivered in stores.  During the Springs Folk Festival week, approximately 2,000 were baked and sold with the help of both batches of my father’s children.

My sisters founded Bread from the Hearth in 2001, continuing the Festival tradition with this oven that was built solely for making bread during the Folk Festival.  They followed the families of Yoder and Brenneman, who passed the bread recipe from one “owner” to the next. While baking bread was nothing new to my sisters, doing it in an outdoor oven is certainly different than it was within the bakery of our home.

Ida Marie Miller, Alice Orendorf,
Sarah Beth Slabach, Rachel Miller,
and Jason Slabach at the bread table

That first year, each of us in the second batch came home (from Canada, Nebraska, and Virginia) to help our sisters who live in Maryland.  Siblings from the first batch helped as well.  Some of us brought our children.

Sarah Beth Slabach takes a break
 in front of the shelves of bread.

Our mama, who was probably missing her own bakery, helped serve sliced bread. Fourteen years later, the tradition runs strong.

Rachel and Alice hold responsibility for the Bread from the Hearth booth. Alice and her husband Bernard arrive in the middle of the night, in time to put the first loaves into the oven (which has been fired since before midnight), and stay for the remainder of the day.  

Bernard mans the outdoor oven and adds wood or kindling as needed, keeping a close eye on the temperature, and making certain heat is distributed evenly throughout the oven.  He handles the metal racks holding seven to eight loaves of bread, putting them in and taking them out of the oven. Rachel helps run the booth throughout the day and tries to make sure we all get our breaks so we can be back during the busiest time.

Katharine tests the water temperature
before adding it to the dough mixture.

Katharine (now in her seventies) begins mixing bread at midnight and stays until the sun is up and more help has arrived. We consider her the unofficial expert, and she finds way to fix mistakes during the batch-mixing like nobody else can.

Over the years, grand-children (and now great-grandchildren),  have visited with each other from Indiana, Maryland, Nebraska and Virginia as they work at the dough table weighing bread, shaping loaves, and serving sliced bread or selling loaves at the front of the booth.  Sometimes it's rainy and cold, and we vie for spots by the oven so we can stay warm.  Other years we swelter and stay as far from the oven as we can.

Cousins and an aunt: 

Anna Keefer, Elissa Orendorf, Alice, and
Sarah Beth Slabach at the dough table.

Christi and Bonita Orendorf
wait on customers in the bread line.

Each year, we come home (or wish we could!) to continue a tradition that evokes memories of our childhood and younger years. We come home to work together again and bake bread in an outdoor oven modeled after the one built by our great-grandfather over 140 years ago.

As dough rises, loaves are shaped and pricked, bread is baked, and customers line up again, we continue to do what we learned well in the bakery at home over half a century ago.  

Though the setting has changed and geographies separate us, we come home to work together, make and bake bread, visit and reminisce, connect with each other's children, and make memories as we continue a tradition.

When the Festival is over, the oven coals are scattered in the firebox and the glow from the embers fades.  The door of the oven is latched and the hearth is swept clean.  When another Festival is over, the texture of time, the taste of home, and the aroma of memories will linger.  No matter which batch we are from, we are family.  Together, we taste and enjoy the timeless beauty, texture, and warmth of homemade.

PHOTO GALLERY - as it happens

   

Ben Reigsecker gets ready to help
mix another batch of bread.

The mixer doing its job.

               

Jason Slabach  helps his aunt Katharine put
dough from the bowl into a tub where it will rise.

       

Bread rising in the warming closet before going  into the oven.

Bread has come out of the oven; unbaked loaves are
ready to go into the oven.

Elissa Orenorf Reigsecker takes hot bread
out of pans,using mitts.

   

Julie Keefer puts apple butter on a
slice of homemade bread  for a customer.

Anna Keefer places loaves into bags to be sold.

Above: The finished product.

Below:  Rebekah Slabach puts bread into paper bags for customers.
The bread is too hot to go into the plastic bags and we are almost sold out!

Alicen Regisecker begs her father for a taste of apple butter on bread.

Kohl Orendorf plays with his cousin Aaron Slabach while his parents work in the bread booth.
. In the background, you can see the stacks of wood that will be used in the firebox of  the outdoor oven.

               

Rebecca Miller (NE) enjoys the taste of homemade!
One bite going . . .

                                             

going . . .

                                                

                                                                              . . .  almost gone . . . !

PHOTO CREDITS: 

Glen Beachy, Marla Miller,  Rachel N. Miller, Gertrude Slabach, Rebekah Slabach, Springs Historical Society

                             

  

Think Pink

        Sunlight arrived first, followed by Moonbeam.  Both summer babies, they were born a little over two years apart.    I envisioned for them days of laughter and nights of sharing secrets, and (someday) grownup girls who were friends.  

                                          How was I to know then that my

                                    vision was just a dream?                       

Sunlight

Moonbeam

         As a child, I had five sisters with whom to play, and I  imagined my girls would have as much fun playing together as we did.  People who knew us and watched us grow up said they had never seen a   group of sisters who were so alike and yet so different.  Our mother didn't try to make us become more alike; she allowed us to be different and enjoyed the kaleidoscope of our personalities.  So naturally I assumed that if I ever had girls, they'd be like us:  varying shades of pink.

snips-and-snails

          When Dave and I started our family, I figured our offspring would have

a childhood like mine: days filled with the rich texture of creative playing and blending of varied hues.   I didn't mind having three boys in a row.  I grew accustomed to days filled with rambunctious noises and snips-and-snails-and-puppy-dog-tails, awash in a spectrum of blue.

          With each pregnancy, it didn't matter to me what sex our baby would be.

I just wished for healthy children who would grow up to love Jesus and have fun together as they swirled rainbow after rainbow of fun.

          Then when Sunlight, our fourth child and first daughter joined our family, I was tickled pink.  Maybe, just maybe she would one day have a sister. My sisters and I fought our way through childhood days but also made wonderful memories playing together.  I wanted our little princess to have as much fun as we did growing up together.  Two years later when another baby was on the way, I thought perhaps my dream would come true.  After all, how could I raise my little girl without a sister?  I wasn't sure I’d know how to do that.  And I wished, just this once, for another tint of pink to add to our palette.

           So the day my doctor did an ultrasound to make sure it was safe for me to travel and  asked me if I wanted to know what sex this child was, I said yes.  Never mind that Dave and I had always chosen not to know ahead of time because we wanted to experience the surprise of finding blue or pink at the end the rainbow.  Never mind that all four children were in the exam room because we were heading to a friend’s pool after this visit.  Never mind they might pick up on the lingo and spill the paint.  For the first time in any pregnancy, I wanted to know.  Dr. Ward scanned my abdomen, looked at the monitor, and said quietly, “Think pink.”

           “Are you sure?!”  I asked, elated.  To answer, he pointed to the screen and named the female parts of this unborn child.   All afternoon, I hugged the sugar-n-spice secret to myself. This was before the days of cell phones and texting, so I didn't have a chance to talk to Dave until he came home for supper amid the clamor of kids.  Around the supper table that evening, I told Dave about the ultrasound.

          “I know the secret, and I’ll tell you if you want to know.  But I promise not to say another word if you don’t want to know.”

          “Sure,” he said, eyeing the children as we passed food around the table, “but not now!”

          I couldn't wait.  “Think pink,” I said, grinning.

        Dave wasn't convinced.  We knew too many people who had painted a nursery pink only to come home with a little-boy-blue.  Still, I was convinced, because I had seen that ultrasound.  We didn't tell anybody that we knew and carried visions of everything-nice in our hearts while we waited.  The boys were oblivious as I laundered pink dresses and stock-piled little girl onesies.  Less than a month later, little Moonbeam appeared.  Petite and tiny, she was as dark as her sister was fair.

 I should have known then that these little maidens might  not be as alike as I had dreamed.  They weren't.                                                                                                                                                                        

     Oh sure, they liked to play with dolls and have pretend school, or play church.  They liked to color, have their hair combed in different styles, and wear new clothes.

look-alikes on the outside

       Oh yes, they spent many hours of fun playing together and imitating others.  Yet even then, each girl’s swatch held its own distinct colors.                                                              

       The older they became, the more visible were their differences. Yes, they both carried the X chromosome.   But that is pretty much where the similarities stopped.  We talked about it a few months ago, sitting in a restaurant out of town.

         “You can count on one hand the ways we are alike,” said Sunlight, daring us to prove her wrong.  Miss Moonbeam grinned across the table, first at her, then at us.  I hadn't pondered that thought much because I knew it wouldn't change the way they were designed.  But when I had to answer the question, I realized how much they were both right.  For once, they agreed!

three blue-eyed cherubs

     We found a few ways:  they have the same parents and the same brothers.  Both carry the recessive blue-eye gene (but then, so does one of their brothers).  

 Of our half-dozen, they are the only ones who wear glasses. I admit that it was hard coming up with other similarities. 

     “You both like to read,” I said, knowing exactly what was coming next.   Sure.  Sunlight enjoys mystery, novels, and fiction.  Moonbeam likes history, animal stories, and love stories.   They enjoy videos.  Sunlight likes detective, suspense, and comedy episodes.  Moonbeam watches historical features, love stories, and family shows. 

proud Papa and his daughters

     As a child, Sunlight’s countenance disappeared behind clouds with a mere look from her father, and obedience was usually instant.  Moonbeam defied in word and in deed, often stomping her foot and spouting words to emphasize her refusal to obey – thus spending hours in time out.

          Both enjoy music.  As children, Sunlight played flute, and Moonbeam played clarinet.  Their taste of music is varied although there are genres about which they now agree.

          While Sunlight is able to mend if necessary, Moonbeam designed and made her own quilt when she was nine.   It’s true that she had some help from an aunt, and the quilt was hand-quilted by cousins and bound by another senior friend.  But the design and piecing of the quilt was done by Moonbeam herself.

          Sunlight likes to cook but hates to hang out laundry.  Moonbeam likes to clean and do laundry but does not like to cook.  Sunlight likes babies and small children; Moonbeam relates well with young cousins and older kids.

          Sunlight is disciplined and can get up early in the morning even if she’s been up late.  Sunlight likes to watch movies as she falls asleep.  Moonbeam needs a lot of sleep and stays up until all hours of the night, falling asleep with several open books on her bed, and then wants to sleep in come morning.

          They both like to shop but would never wear each other’s clothes because their tastes are so different (unless we’re talking Virginia Tech clothing). Even if they shared the same tastes, difference in size prohibits sharing of clothing. 

          Moonbeam never wears shoes unless she has to and walked barefoot at her high school graduation. Sunlight was appalled at her sister’s bare feet on the platform as she gave her graduation speech;  she likes to wear heels and be proper even though she enjoys sporting sandals and flip flops.

      Moonbeam hates to be cold; Sunlight is usually hot and sleeps with the AC on high or a fan blowing in her 

face.  

   Sunlight is daring. Skydiving, snowboarding and donating blood regularly are accomplished feats.  Moonbeam is cautious.  Moonbeam wouldn't think of spending her money on skydiving and admits a sense of relief that she does not weigh enough to donate blood.

          Sunlight thinks the speed limit is posted for the lowest speed one should go.  In the first week after Moonbeam received her driving permit, she had to pull over to allow cars to pass her because she barely kept the speedometer at speed limit. In the past year, however, Moonbeam has navigated her way across hundreds of miles in Virginia without any trouble at all. When the three of us travel anywhere, Sunlight takes the wheel.  When it’s just Moonbeam and me, I’m the driver.   Sunlight is my navigator, introducing me to new shops and new flavors.  Moonbeam keeps me tuned to new people and ideas through new authors, books, and web sites.

          Sunlight beams gently, providing warmth and compassion to those who are lonely.  Moonbeam is fiercely loyal once she knows someone well but tends to hide her compassion behind clouds.

          Both of them are hoarders, but when it is time to dispose of items, they differ.  Sunlight keeps cards, tags, and receipts from trips and events with friends.  She willingly disposes of toys and teddies once special to her. Moonbeam  keeps cards, pictures, notes, awards, and memorabilia from travels and special occasions.  Moonbeam refuses to allow her childhood Tigger to be gifted or sold.

       Sunlight is bored with genealogy and who is related to whom.  Moonbeam will read family history books in order to learn more about the families from which she hails. She visits readily with older people who can answer questions about her genealogy.

          Career pursuits are at opposite ends of the spectrum:  physical therapy vs. agriculture sciences and a minor in history.  Neither has an understanding of the interest of the other in career choice; yet in this case, Sunlight is following her mother’s side of the family and Moonbeam follows her father’s.

          In relating as a family, Moonbeam favors her mother’s side of the family; and Sunlight favors her father’s.   Moonbeam thinks like her mother and has difficulty seeing humor in family jokes that she does not consider funny. She is nostalgic and hates to leave friends behind when she moves on to new avenues.  

     Sunlight has always held her own with her brothers and cracks jokes with the best of them, and unless it’s in your genes, you just don’t get it.  Their humor is one of a kind.

       When both of them are home,  I enjoy their blending of hues, making quite a team. My laundry and cleaning is done without complaint by Moonbeam.  The kitchen, complete with meal preparation, is kept stocked and cleaned by Sunlight.  When I need computer or internet assistance, I ask Sunlight.  When I’m looking for something I've misplaced, Moonbeam will know exactly where it is.  While I have always practiced having these gals do things in which they don’t excel or don’t like to do, I also know who is quicker to respond to which need – and I utilize that as well.

          We've spent time talking about the mosaic of their personalities.  We've made conscious decisions to enable those personalities to blend into the tapestry of our family.  A year ago we did a long-distance Bible study for three months.  From a dorm, an apartment, and home, we met via Skype on a bi-weekly basis.  For once, they agreed on a topic, and we connected long distance.  For once, discussions didn't take us down random roads, leaving one frustrated with the other.  After all these years, it finally happened.

    It’s been quite a twenty-year ride, being their mom. Our girls were right.  They are more different than they are alike. 

     When the obstetrician said, “Think pink,” that’s about as close as it got. I’m grateful that there are many shades of pink, for otherwise, I would surely be bored.  Some shades are vivid, vibrant, and intense.

     Others are delicate, serene, and tender.  I’m okay with that because I know the One who designed the entire spectrum of pink.  I also know that He makes no mistakes.  In His massive canvas of life, He never has to correct mistakes or begin over.
      Each color, each shade, and each hue adds a different flavor to our family and our world.  They will always be sisters.  One day, I believe, they will become best of friends. When I think of being a mom to girls, I no longer just think pink.  I envision cherry blossom, fuchsia, raspberry, magenta, cerise, flamingo, ruby, strawberry, and rose.  I think of contrasts:  light and dark, rich and pastel.  And I am grateful that, in our family, we have been able to experience and enjoy the varied contrast of textures.  We've also been touched by the unique and diverse shades of pink. 

4 boys + 2 girls = 6
Jason, Sarah Beth, Rebekah, Tim, Ben with Butch (Aaron)
Circa 1997.