Irreplaceable baking tool

My paternal grandmother was not a great cook; she had several basic meals that she prepared which I thought were delicious, and since have learned differently.  While they were not going to win any awards for flavor or presentation, they were good, hearty, stick to your ribs meals which would keep you going throughout the day’s hard work until time for the next meal.  The one thing that she did make which I could never get enough of, were her incredible dinner rolls.

As soon as I was tall enough to reach the counter of the antique baking cabinet (which I rushed into by using an old milking stool), I was allowed to sink my hands into the warm, silky soft, floured dough and help shape the rolls for their last rise on special occasions such as a holiday meal or my grandfather’s birthday dinner.  She used two pieces of baking equipment which I consider irreplaceable in the baking process, a stoneware bowl and an old fashioned baking cabinet.

When I moved back to the family farm, the baking cabinet remained in the kitchen.  I don’t know that I ever remember my grandmother keeping flour and sugar in the sifters, but I remember rolling out lots of dough on the enamelware surface.  Today, the flour sifter is full and used almost daily for bread, pie crusts, cakes, gravies, or any other recipe which requires the white fluffy powder.  The sugar sifter remains unused as I think it stays fresher when stored in a sealable container.  Summers keep the enamelware counter full of freshly baked pies or breads bound for farmers market.  Dough for the loaves of bread rolled onto that counter came from one of the several stoneware bowls which I have acquired over the years at various yard sales and antique stores.

I have scoured antinque stores, online auctions, yard sales, and some very obscure little stores in the middle of rurality looking for my own baking cabinet only to discover that several hundred pie sales will be required before I am able to make that acquisition.  In the meantime, I will cherish the memories of four-year-old Jen, perched on a wobbly milking stool, shaping dinner rolls with my grandmother each time I roll out another pie crust or knead another loaf of bread.