"Τhe weekend in the mountains and the bread of chaos"

"Τhe weekend in the mountains and the bread of chaos"

There's a place in the mountains where my mother-in-law resides in a house that is older than time itself. Her passion is the outdoor oven in the yard, which she describes as "an oven with a soul." To me? "A Volcano Crater Just Waiting to Erupt."

Last Sunday, my wife and I decided to go up to help with kneading the dough. I was enthusiastic; I had two little spoons, no experience, and a lot of excitement. Once we arrived, my mother-in-law—a combination of pure strength and tenderness—glared at me and told me to:

"You, son-in-law... Come on. Show me what you've got in kneading!"

I stood there, prepared for battle, and stuttered:

"How hard c—"

"Stop talking and get your hands in there," she interrupted me. "Dough does not want words. It wants soul!"

With that, I stuck my hands in the flour. The texture was... like damp sand that has not made up its mind about anything in life. And my mother-in-law watched me as if she were observing a teacher watch a student who held his pencil incorrectly.

"Why don't you have some wine to calm down?" she suggested.

I drank it. It didn't do anything to help me. My attempts were doomed from the beginning.

Oh, the dough... the dough... it turned into a thing that should not exist anywhere. It developed a personality of its own and stuck to every single thing possible, including my hands, the table, and my entire existence. My mother-in-law noticed. She shouted:

"Good heavens... What are you? Even the dog wouldn't touch this! You aren't kneading, you're destroying it!"

My wife struggled to keep from laughing by biting her lip. I bit mine to stop from crying.

That was when the most frightening part occurred: turning on the oven. And that is when my mother-in-law transformed into a fireworks commander.

She lit the fire, then added wood, and once it became glowing coals, she ordered me to come over:

"Son-in-law! Take this wooden rod, wrap the end in a wet cloth, and pull the coals. No worries!"

No worries?! Of course, I panicked. It was as if she asked me to take a dragon outside for some fresh air. I picked up the rod and cautiously walked toward the oven... and, seemingly out of nowhere, as if the universe itself had a great sense of humor (or possibly it was just my incompetence), the coals shot at me like angry, little, smurfy dragons.

They sprayed all around the area like a hail of hot balls. My mother-in-law quickly ran over to "offer guidance".

And the result?

She burned the bottom of her shoe.

She screamed as a canister of gas exploded.

"AAAH! GOD ALMIGHTY! YOU WILL SUFFER FOR THIS! GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF THE OVEN! ONLY DISASTERS COME FROM THAT!"

I, in desperation, mumbled:

"Sorry, mom..."

"Don't call me Mom! I birthed genes, not you!"

While I heard my mother-in-law's anger, she came closer to me, took my hand, and said:

"Listen, son-in-law... You may not know much about dough or ovens, but your heart knows that. That is why I love you. Let's make another loaf... together."

So we did. She corrected me, I followed and somehow we succeeded.

When the loaves came out of the oven, the entire house was filled with an incredible smell. I wanted to cry, not because of the smoke, but because of the feelings. At the end of the day, whether she scolded me or not...

I knew she did it out of love.

That is how we spent the funniest, sweetest, and perhaps craziest weekend of my life.