I’ve had this block of sugar sitting on my pantry shelf for six and a half years.

Before that, it was sitting in the pantry of our former house. In fact, I remember buying it from a little venta that was within walking distance from our house. I was wearing the blue Kelty baby carrier on my back when I perused the cramped store aisles, but I have no idea which kid was stuffed into it. Perhaps my now eight-year-old? Or was it my now ten-year-old? I really don’t know. In any case, the sugar is ancient.

When we lived in Nicaragua, we had no brown sugar, just this sugar, which we called dulce. It has a musky, dark flavor that hints of molasses (though I hesitate to draw that comparison that since it’s much more mild than molasses).

The dulce was kind of a pain to use, however. It had to be shaved from the block with a knife, and then chopped into little pieces. (The chunky sugar didn’t fully incorporate into cookie dough, so we got used to cookies pockmarked with little craters of melted sugar, yum.) Once we returned to the States, I switched back to brown sugar and never looked back.

Except for that block of dulce, which I bought on a whim.

Then last week I chopped it up, tossed the chunks with cinnamon, and kneaded them into some bread dough.

The bread looked homely but tasted marvelous—chewy and light, with pockets of molten sugar at every turn.

I ate (way too much of) it warm, spread with butter. Once it cooled, we took to toasting it, and then I turned the tail end of the second loaf into a baked French toast for our Saturday breakfast.

This bread would be good with raisins and orange zest, or with nuts or other spices. Drizzle an icing sugar glaze over top. Shape the dough into buns instead of loaves. The options are endless. And delicious.

Sugar Loaf
Adapted from Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads

The original recipe called for sugar cubes (which brought back musty memories of the many times I snuck sugar cubes from the teachers’ lounge at the private elementary school where my father taught), but I found them tasteless and boring. The dulce was much more gratifying.

1 tablespoon yeast
½ cup warm water
1 ½ cups milk
3 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons salt
4-5 cups bread flour
1 cup chopped dulce de panela
1 tablespoons cinnamon

Toss together the dulce and cinnamon. Set aside.

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water.

Scald the milk and add the butter. Let cool a little.

In a large bowl, combine the milk with 2 cups of flour and the salt. Stir in the dissolved yeast. Add more flour until the dough is no longer sticky but still quite soft. Knead for a couple minutes until the dough is smooth. Knead in the dulce and cinnamon.

Cover the dough with a cloth and let rise until double.

Dive the dough in half, shape into loaves, and place in greased loaf pans. Let the bread rise for 30 minutes, until not quite double in size.

Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 degrees and bake for another 25-40 minutes. Remove the loaves from the pans immediately (before any oozing sugar causes them to stick fast) and cool on a wire rack.

This same time, years previous: breakfast pizza, a child’s blessing

*this makes me want another baby like you wouldn’t believe
*five tries and I finally got it right!
*I do believe I am addicted to this tea: I drink it morning, noon, and night, and always in that blue mug
*sometimes you just have to scale back your expectations and make do
*sick: so far no one else has been stricken, so I’m hoping (fingers crossed, knock on wood) it was just a fluke (updated: another kid is down, darn)
*she tied him up: I guess one dog isn’t enough?
*a friend gifted me this hot pad several years ago and I use it all the time (that’s 100% whole grain cornbread you see in the skillet)
*”I want to learn to do the x-es,” he begged, so I gave him a lesson in multiplication and, much to my surprise, he got it
*Sunday afternoon pile-up
*the chickens have finally started laying and now we’re drowning in eggs (I’m not complaining)

This same time, years previous: authentic German soft pretzels, now, my baby in the hospital, blondies, dunging out, my wizard mom, what I did today, the Auntie Anne’s saga, creamy potato soup with bacon and boiled eggs, meatballs

Our friends’ father died earlier this week (I did not know him, but if he was anything like his children, then he was a very sweet man), and last night I got a call from one of the church elders asking if I could go clean the house while the family was out and about.

I said no at first. Two nights before one of my children projectile vomited all over his room and then spent the rest of the night puking out his ever-loving guts. I was on pins and needles, waiting for the next kid to blow, but then I realized that if that didn’t happen, we could do it.

Besides, I’d never gotten around to taking the family a meal and I really wanted to do something tangible for them.

Besides, I had made some granola for them (kind of an apology for not bringing a complete meal) that was cooling in the oven and I’d need to run that over to their house anyway.

So I said, yes, we’d do it.

Before my husband left for work, he helped me map out the route. Because I can’t (won’t) (don’t very well) read maps. We used a paper map and map quest and I was still giving him blank looks. Which irked him most magnificently. In fact, at one point he exploded with, “If I had a blog, I’d write about this!” (Beat you to it, sweetie pie!)

So anyway, I grabbed a bucket, a stack of rags, my scribbled directions, the kids, and off we went. I only made one wrong turn.

On the car ride over, I prepped the kids about proper etiquette and what we’d be doing exactly. I explained why people need someone to come clean when a family member dies. I preached about the importance of not messing with their stuff. We’re elves, I said. When they get back, the house should look just like they left it, but cleaner.

When we arrived, the family was all loaded up in their car, ready to go on a hike. We hugged, cried a little, and they gave me cleaning directions. Then they backed out the drive and my entourage and I marched into the house.

That’s when it hit me. What in the world I was thinking! Taking my brute squad of royal mess-makers into a house with lots of glass windows and pretty wood floors and not-torn-up sofas so that we could clean it? Good grief. I was out of my blooming mind.

The kids, all pumped up from my lectures about helping, immediately started playing with the shiny red vacuum’s zippy cord, squirting spray bottles, and arguing about who got to do what. My anxiety levels skyrocketed.

Gradually, and with a tremendous amount of yelling and redirecting and explaining, I got them going on specific tasks. One kid got in the shower (it was big—she had to), one kid shook out cloths and throw rugs, one kid dusted chairs, one kid washed dishes. I flew around supervising, ordering, double-checking (and re-doing), and quickly trying to tackle the big important stuff before the kids got to it. The older kids were so excited about the window washing supplies that they not only did all the mirrors but the door windows as well, and in their enthusiasm, they burned through all the paper towels.

When the younger kids started to be more a nuisance than a help, I sent them outside to run around (though I had to keep calling out to them to STAY OFF THE ROOF) (for real, the adjoining house is lower down and they kept climbing up on its roof—my kids have no shame), and then since it was going on lunch time, I brought out some green muffins that were sitting on the counter (the green is pistachio, not mold, the woman told us) for a snack. Back in the house, I ran around wiping over the counters, washing a toilet (and cutting my finger on it because I’m talented like that), and hurling the dirty rags in a heap by the door.

And then we were turning off the lights and shutting the door behind us. I had saved the last muffin as a bribe-reward-treat (take your pick) to help ease the transition from cool tire swing-in-the-woods to boring van seat.

Now we’re home and I’m fervently hoping the washed dishes in the drainer are actually clean and that we didn’t leave any wadded-up paper towels in the shower.

This same time, years previous: banana split ice cream, a warm winter day