Homemade rye bread is one of the main reasons I took an interest in baking. This staple of the Finnish diet is as coveted by Finnish immigrants as sunlight and American clothing are by the Finns still in Finland. It's essentially impossible to find rye bread in the States that is anywhere close to the kind of rye bread you get in Finland. In fact, when my family moved to the States for the second time when I was ten (we had moved here for four years when I was a year old and then moved back to Finland) two of my biggest culture shocks were the lack of rye bread, and the frequency with which people expressed affection for each other (the Finns are a somewhat colder bunch).

The difficult thing about baking rye bread is the fact that you have to have either a piece of rye bread or a piece of dough from a leavened rye bread dough to make the starter with. Each batch of rye bread builds on the last batch with the aroma, flavor and texture improving with each generation. For the first batch of bread my mother actually had to get her mom to smuggle a few pieces of genuine Finnish rye bread to the States. The starter has to leaven for 24 hours and the dough has to leaven for another hour to two hours.  The starter needs close attention and the dough is sensitive to over kneeding.

The other difficult thing about baking rye bread is that my mom is the keeper of the root piece of dough from the last batch, so to learn how to bake it I had to venture home to the land of a thousand judgmental jibes (that color makes you look fat) and endless guilt trips (I haven't rested since your brother was born) etc. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother, she is what one friend gently described as a 'battle axe' of a woman. She is meaner than Joan Rivers and crazier than Joan Crawford. In short, she is a bitch. She's had to be. She's been a mom since she was sixteen, emigrated three times, buried her dad when she was younger than I am now, and endured countless hardships to ensure a good life for her children. She deserves the respect she demands. She also, however, could probably use some well deserved mood regulators. Her tempermental nature makes being around her feel like you're a character in a zombie movie, just when you think you're safe you hear the piercing scream of a woman that is hungry for your blood. The first day, when we made the starter, everything seemed like it would be okay, a few jibes about how I'm not mean enough to my boyfriend, how I don't visit enough, how I'm too skinny (a month ago she was worried all the baking would make me fat) just the usual stuff. The second day we make the actual dough and I'm reminded of why I don't visit enough. Sparks flew as we made wild accusations to each other about who ruined whose life. We were able to put our differences aside because the dough had leavened and it was time to bake.

The loaves came out of the oven smelling wonderful, nothing smells better than fresh baked bread. And as tedious as the process had been, it was worth it.