Proof of Life by Jennifer Rinterknecht

Proof of Life
By Jennifer Rinterknecht

I can not remember his face that morning, but I see clearly the brown and silver geometry of the wallpaper above his head where the ceiling slanted over the bed. I also remember being very aware of turning left instead of right at the top of the stairs each time I climbed to ask a question. He slept in the guest bedroom during his last few weeks.
That particular morning I decided to learn to bake bread. I got out the old spiral Betty Crocker that had been my parent’s as newlyweds and began a process of patience and hope.
The recipe told me that I needed to start by proofing the yeast. I filled a glass measuring cup with ¼ cup warm water and dissolved 2 and a half teaspoons of dry yeast into it. Then I waited for the surface of the liquid to show signs of life, what the cook book described as bubbly and frothy looking. If the yeast bubbled it was active and my bread would rise; if it bubbled I could move on to the next step.
The first time I mixed the water and yeast I watched impatiently. No bubbles. I stirred some more and waited with my eye level to the glass measuring cup. No eruptions on the placid milky brown surface. I walked up the stairs. Turned left.
“Dad” I said. “The yeast is not bubbling.”
“Your water is probably not warm enough.” He said. “Try again.”
I walked back down the stairs to the kitchen, dumped out the old water and yeast and rinsed the measuring cup. New water, fresh yeast. Clink and stir. I waited. No bubbles. I stirred again. Waited. Still no bubbles. Back up the stairs. Turned left. “Dad, There are still no bubbles.”
“Your water must be too hot then.” He said. “ Try again.”
Back down the stairs. New water. Clink and stir. A little froth. No bubbles. Back up the stairs. “Dad, does froth count?”
“No, it has to bubble to be sure. Test the water on your wrist as if you were testing a baby’s bottle. If you can not feel the water then you know it is the right temperature.”
Before returning down the stairs I looked at him. I had never prepared a baby’s bottle, but I thought about the hundreds of bottles he must have prepared for me and my sister. I imagined him testing milk on his wrist. The right temperature would be so familiar to him that he could feel probably still feel it on his skin from memory. I felt the desperation of my attempt to bake bread. I went back down the stairs.
I ran the water in the sink and stuck my index finger under the flow. Caught a drop. Let the drop fall on my wrist. Was it hot or cold? Could I feel it? What I felt was a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Why was I supposed to feel nothing? Why couldn’t he just come down the stairs to help me?
I wanted to bake a beautiful brown loaf of bread that would rise and fill the house with the smell of warmth and security and activity. I needed proof of life in more than just my glass measuring cup and all I had was ambiguous froth.
After the third attempt I did not go up the stairs. Instead I stood at the bottom and called up, “It’s still not working!” I don’t remember if I tried again. I do not know if a loaf of bread came out of that morning. I only remember the endless attempts and frustration. Why was proofing necessary? We don’t get proof of anything else in life. We don’t get proof of love or long life. No one can guarantee that your dad will be around to meet his grandchildren.
Today I never proof my yeast. My bread rises or falls as it will. This morning was my first experiment with wild yeast. This seems riskier to me and more rewarding. My dark brown loaf attracts a crowd to the kitchen. My children want to taste this proof of life.