Bake my Mother Irish Soda Bread every week during the Lenten Season

Sometimes it’s a hassle to do this. I want to ride my bike or watch movies . . . or sleep, but I have to make the bread because I made this promise to her.

Then I remember . . . I am lucky to still have her . . . quick yer bitchin’ and make the bread Hippiechick!!!

I sneak in an extra loaf here and there for her throughout the year. She has a bunch of scary doctors appointments this week . . . I might just whip out a couple today before I take her to the first of them tomorrow.

I though I might offer an explanation as to why I do this particular thing for my Mother.

My Mother was born in the depression and she was the baby, the tail end of a 6 kid family. My Grandparents were just downright poor, no “if’s ands or buts”, they were poor! My Aunt told me that often they had to go to bed with only hot water for dinner as the food that they did have was already consumed at Breakfast and Lunch. At the time, my Grandfather had not started his business, He was later a Civil Engineer and Surveyor and brought his three sons into the business, but that was much later. At the time my Mom was born, things were pretty grim.

My Grandparents were German (my Grandfathers side) and Irish (my Grandmother’s side) My Grandmother used to make Irish Soda Bread almost everyday. It is quick to make and it is fairly cheap to make and it was something that kept the family functioning.

My Mother has good memories of Irish Soda Bread, probably because she was too young to realize the reason that this was their primary staple. she just loves the taste and the memory of her Mother making it everyday. I do not know exactly how I started this, but every year for several years I have made my Mother Irish Soda Bread every week for Lent. It is something that she looks forward too. So I take time out of my weekend to bake her a couple loaves. I usually vary it from week to week. Sometimes I put raisins in it, sometimes just plain and sometimes I put caraway seed in it. That’s my story . . .