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This is a
slightly edited version of an article I wrote as a
freelance writer several years ago for a local
newspaper. The story moved on the AP wire, and I
received requests for copies for years after first
publication.
The headline is
the editor’s. The story is true.
To Arthur: A
good friend and baking companion
 Since early childhood, I have loved to cook, But for
far too many years, my repertoire consisted of only
the time-honored recipes on which I was raised. The
thought of the innovative or exotic filled me with
dread.
Most
intimidating of all was the thought of working with
yeast. Several times I had attempted to make bread,
but the results had been mediocre at best. Still, I
longed for the day when my own homemade bread would
fill every corner of my home with its intoxicating
aroma.
Statistics may
be lacking, but I strongly suspect that anyone who
has conquered the fear of the unknown and achieved
greatness in the face of failure has not done so
without the love and support of a loyal friend. For
me, such a friend came knocking, or rather,
scratching, at my door late one winter night long
ago. I was living alone at the time in a beach shack
on Point Judith, Rhode Island. It didn’t snow very
much that year, but the sleet would typically whip
across the point at up to 40 miles per hour. It was
from such a gale that my friend sought refuge.
The trembling
package of bones and fur that stumbled into my
apartment showed signs of neglect and possible
abuse. By the flicker of the failing electric
lights, however, I could discern something noble
about this animal, a large canine of singularly
undistinguished lineage.
His name was
Arthur.
 Collapsing in
front of my gas heater, Arthur appeared barely
alive. There was little I could do for him, so I
settled myself on a nearby sofa, and together we
waited out the storm. When dawn arrived, he raised
his head, and I found I could spoon a little food
into his mouth. At first, Arthur could eat only
soup, which was fine. These storms usually caught me
unprepared, and soup was all that we had.
After a few days, my new friend could take some
solid food, so I offered him some Swiss cheese. He
like that so well, I then gave him my steak. Having
never owned a dog before, I simply began planning
meals around the two of us: I would have chicken,
baked potato and peas… and Arthur would have
chicken, baked potatoes and peas. Even TV dinners
were appearing in my shopping cart in pairs. As for
dog food – THAT was for DOGS. Arthur’s pallet was
much more refined.
Like any good
friend, Arthur was tolerant of my efforts to improve
my culinary skills. We could discuss new and
exciting menus. “Tomorrow,” I would explain, “we’ll
have veal cordon bleu, and the next day, perhaps,
veal cordon bleu sandwiches for lunch.” He never
said, “Oh gross! I’ll just open a can of Alpo, if
you don’t mind.” Ever grateful, Arthur offered all
the encouragement anyone could need to accomplish
the impossible. With him by my side, surely I could
learn to become a real baker.
If it sounds
incredible that a dog could be an apprentice baker’s
mentor, consider the attributes that contribute to
all productive friendships.
First, a good
friend does not interfere. Arthur seemed to
subscribe to an ancient tenet that stated: All good
things will come to he who sits silently and waits.
He never barked or carried on, as did some
less-dignified members of his species. He would
settle his 90-pound form in a hunched position
before the oven door, praying to the lighted window
and the treasure within. His model of infinite
patience taught me to wait for the dough to rise.
Second, a
friend is enthusiastic. Dogs are great moral
support. They love everything! And they never
complain when some error in judgment postpones the
project’s completion until 3:00 AM. Bread making
takes its own time.
Third, a friend
is not critical. Sweet breads burn easily, I soon
learned. But blackened crust was no problem. I
simply removed the burnt edges and offered them to
Arthur, keeping the tender insides for myself.
Finishing his share first, he sat before me licking
an enormous canine grin, which undoubtedly said,
“Gosh, that was great! Got any more?”
 Fourth, a
friend helps you clean up. Baking can be messy, but
I never had to sweep crumbs.
Last, a friend
is loyal. As the years went by, Arthur welcomed each
new addition to our family, first a husband, then
children, then the various creatures children bring
home. Though he loved them all, he remained my dog.
Following me from room to room, he would quietly
make himself comfortable in a corner without
demonstration of affection. It was enough for him to
simply be where I was.
Since baking
can be mastered only by experimentation, it became
our habit to bake together in the late hours of the
night. Arthur would follow me downstairs to the
kitchen, where we would take advantage of the quiet
time and attempt some new recipe or technique.
During our
sessions, I would usually set a timer, then nap on
the sofa while the dough was rising or baking. From
there, I could see, across the darkened room, the
lighted oven window and before it, Arthur’s hunched
figure keeping vigil. Frequently, I would sleep
through the bell. At that time, Arthur would alert
me – usually by sitting silently by the sofa. It
must have been the sound of his breathing in my face
that jolted me into consciousness. I’d rise; then
together we would partake of our latest creation,
just two old friends indulging.
But even the
most steadfast of friendships does not last forever.
And so the day came when Arthur and I had to
terminate our partnership of 15 years. Around that
time, I had read an article about how bread making
could comfort those in mourning. So the children and
I baked bread, and it was a comfort.
In the years
since, I have continued my efforts, continued to
learn. Confident in the medium, I have even been
called somewhat of an expert.
And late at
night, after the family retires, I still, though not
as often, descend the stairs to the kitchen to test
a new recipe. But I do so alone now.
Sometimes,
though, half asleep on my sofa, when I peer across
the dark room toward the oven, I think I see him –
his large hunched figure keeping his vigil before
the lighted window…
Sitting
silently…
Waiting…for good things to come.
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