Yiayia’s Oven

This picture is of one of my favorite ovens EVER! This charming dome structure which was probably built sometime in the late 1930’s was the primary bread baking oven for my mother’s family. My mother’s family emigrated from Crete, Greece around the 1900’s and eventually landed in Manteca, CA where they purchased forty acres. Once they settled at the farm they began to fill it with all the things they remembered from their village in Crete. They built a cement plaza under the mulberry tree for singing, dancing, and feasting. In addition to an olive oil press my grandfather built this oven for my grandmother to bake her bread.

Mondays were bread baking days. It was almost an all day job so my Yiayia made sure to make enough bread to last the whole week and welcomed any hands, large or small to help. Yiayia began by proofing the yeast in some warm water with a pinch of sugar. While the yeast proofed she’d place a large pot of milk on the stove and heat it to just under scalding. After the milk had scalded she waited for it to be cool enough to proceed. The way she determined if the milk was ready was to hold her little finger in the pot and count to ten, if she could keep her finger in the milk for a count of ten without it burning her then she knew she could proceed. Next she’d pour the warm milk into a large metal kind of trough. She’d pour a generous amount of honey into the warm milk and season it with spices-coriander and cumin seeds crushed coarsely with against the palms of her hands, and several nuggets of masticha a sharp tasting tree resin that she had ground in a mortar and pestle. A handful of salt was tossed in and the yeast was added. If they hens had been busy that week and there were extra eggs, then some beaten eggs would go in, if there was butter around then a cube or two of butter might be added, it all depended on what needed to be used up. At this point she would start to add the flour, one hand stirring the dough while the other added the flour. She would stop when the dough still seemed quite wet and sticky. Because she was making such a large quantity she would mound flour on her work table and place a hunk of the soft sticky dough on the flour. She’d use flour to clean her hands of the sticky dough and then knead the whole mass, incorporating flour as necessary until the unruly mixture became lovely and silken. The kneaded dough would be placed in an oiled vessel roughly the same size as the one she’d made the dough in. She’d repeat this procedure until all the dough was beautiful, softly yielding and live. Anyone in the kitchen at the time would find themselves washing their hands and pitching in during this process. If we were too little to really be of any help she’d give us pieces of dough to keep ourselves amused while she worked. No matter how filthy or squashed our little loaves may have been she’d bake them with the same respect as she had for the family loaves. The whole lot of it was covered with clean tea towels and left to rise-the rising time would depend on the time of year and the temperature of the kitchen. Once the kitchen smelled of yeast and spices and the dough was tripled in size she’d punch the dough down, this was a task that had little volunteers begging to participate! To this day I love the sound of the air escaping as you punch into the big yeasty ball and how the soft warm dough feels beneath your hands as you knead it back into shape. Once all the dough had been disturbed from its yeasty slumber and reshaped it was allowed to “rest” again, for a shorter rise. While the dough was rising the oven was prepared.