The blizzard of 1967 hit Chicago and the surrounding area on January 26th with a record setting 23 inches of snow followed by high winds and drifting. To this day it remains the worst winter storm in Chicago history. My small Mayberry-esque suburb of Blue Island, Illinois was in its path, and for a boy of eight years old, it became a magical dream world. School was called off, snow forts were built, and there was endless television on all THREE channels. However, for my parents, there was serious concern for the safety of family and friends. Just returning from work was a challenge for Dad and with little warning of the storm, mom found grocery store shelves quickly emptied of bread, milk, and daily staples.
This was when mom taught me about bread being the staff of life. Interestingly enough, she always kept yeast in the house and we had plenty of flour and sugar left from the holiday baking season. Mom pulled me into her emergency mode and shared with me the art of bread baking. She dug out the vintage crock-like Bauer Bowl (which I cherish and still use today) and my Great-Grandmother Rose Schade’s bread recipe. I quickly learned from a master the techniques of working with yeast, kneading dough, letting it rise and punching it down to rise once again. Loaf after loaf of glorious bread went into the oven and was shared with family, friends and neighbors. All of that bread with its warm and comforting aroma, as well as that iconic ’67 snow storm, will remain with me forever.