That day mum wept like a sheep who could not escape slaughter, and my elder sister was preparing for the debate competition, or was it a poster board design competition, or an oral report for a course at school. She said mum’s pouring tears didn't bother her. "She must have eaten too much bread," my sister said. Scrutinizing mum's crying face for a while, she added "She can never moderate the amount." She then carried her bag, took a pile of notes, and left the house. Her school uniform had not been washed and ironed for a few days, but it still looked fine with dirt on it.

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There were only mum, who is lying on the sofa, and me at home. If the sound was not an ambiguous wail which like a soprano wreathing endlessly, then it must have had some kind of force, similar to construction workers drilling a wall. The sound forced me to unlock the door. I passed the corridor, walked down the stairs to the ground floor, opened the fire door, and entered an area full of golden sunshine, where the leaves were swaying by the wind. The aroma of freshly baked bread was drifting in the air. At first there was just a hint of it, but it gradually surrounded me and became stronger. It did not disperse, rather stayed in my respiratory tract and lungs, and even became my scent. That made me realise that I could not get out of this fixed zone. If it not mum, it would have been something else.

 

Almost at the same moment, I could understand mum’s mood as she used to rub flour with water determined to make a bread loaf.

 

Back then, every meal was not decided by us. "Others will envy you kids, if there is no choice there are no unnecessary decision," mum said. So, when she came out of the kitchen with a hard wheat bread placing it on the table, we only bowed our heads, kept eating and said nothing. The only audible thing was the sounds of chewing.

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If my sister hadn’t cried in fear, we would have definitely just kept bowing our heads and eating. And, shortly after someone would have been saying something like “Scrumptious”, or “I’ve never eaten a tastier bread”. But her sharp scream broke the solid wall of tranquillity. She pulled a strand of brown curly hair out of the bread she was chewing in her mouth. The dripping wet strand of hair was still stuck in light brown breadcrumbs mixed with saliva. She grabbed the hair with two fingers and shoved it under everyone's nose.

I forgot if I recognised any sign of embarrassment on my mum’s face. I only remember her decisive voice, just like a cold blade, engraved words in our mind in which we will then repeatedly think of. “No matter how exquisite the food is, as long as it has been carefully cooked, there must be chef’s traces left. It may be sweat, or may be dandruff, saliva, secretion, eyelashes, hair, nails, and even blood. You just never recognise or have already gotten used to it.” Her voice gradually rose from initial low, hoarse voice to an angry sharp cut. It was actually closer to a condemnation than an explanation or a persuasion.

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“The bread being sold in the shops is even dirtier.” She looked at our eyes one by one and said, “if you have ever visit any kitchen in any restaurant, you will lose all your desire to eat.”

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After that, bread was a main course in at least one of the meal every day. We were not sure why she did this. Whether she was completely indulged in the process of producing bread, or her stomach was unable to leave the yeast cultivated by her and the dough she used great effort to knead. She only led us to the kitchen, pointing at the lump that was lying on the stove lazily, as pale as a sleeping fat boy, and said “If you don’t make bread for two days, or forgot to give it flour and water, it will faint.” Perhaps just based on some kind of guilt-ridden unbearable feeling, the bread looked like part of mum’s flesh and blood. And perhaps we also share the same predicament; I volunteered to take up the responsibility of taking care of the yeast, and promised my mum that I will ensure it has enough water and nutrition every day. It was like caring for a fragile and ignorant baby.

 

Actually, we did not really hate eating bread – at least I thought so. Although our body instinctively refused to eat baked food, I always comforted myself that the objective of eating is only to fill up our stomach and satisfy our hunger when it is necessary.