Sesame French Bread

Elijah's first Atlanta trip. July. The plan is happening. One week with Terrence and Gloria in Decatur. I packed his bag (seven outfits, all orange-compatible, because the Orange Rule travels). I packed his favorite blanket (the yellow one Mama knitted, because grandma blankets are not city-specific). I packed a fire truck (Jayden's loaner — "he can BORROW it, like Terrence borrowed my helmet," the lending tradition continues). And I packed myself: I drove Elijah to Atlanta. Seven hours. The same seven hours Terrence drives monthly. I drove them for the first time.

Gloria met us at the door. The porch. The Decatur house. The azaleas. The same porch where I stood five years ago with cornbread and fear. This time: a toddler and less fear (but still some — the fear of leaving him doesn't go away; it just changes shape). Gloria took Elijah from my arms and he went willingly because he knows Nana-Gloria (she visits Nashville twice a year and FaceTimes weekly) and he said: "Nana Two!" NANA TWO. He calls Gloria NANA TWO. As if grandmothers are numbered. As if the numbering system is: Nana (Lorraine, primary) and Nana Two (Gloria, secondary). The hierarchy is accidental and perfect. Gloria laughed. She said: "I'll take Two. Two is fine." The Two is the love. The numbering is the love.

I left him. I drove back to Nashville. Seven hours alone in the RAV4, which is the longest I've been alone in a car without children's music or questions or "are we there yet" in... maybe ever. The silence was: loud. The silence was the sound of a mother without her children in the car and the without is a specific frequency that only mothers can hear. I cried for the first hour (the hour between Decatur and Chattanooga, the hour where the distance is new and the absence is sharp). Then I stopped. Then I drove. Then I called Mama and she said: "He's fine. You're fine. The cornbread is waiting." The cornbread is waiting. The restaurant. The thing that is mine that is bigger than the missing. The cornbread is waiting. I drove home.

The week without Elijah was: productive and lonely and filled with a restaurant that needed me and a mother who missed him and a phone that showed me photos from Atlanta (Elijah at the zoo, Elijah eating jollof rice from Gloria, Elijah on Terrence's shoulders, Elijah saying "Nana Two love" — the three-word sentence that justified every mile of the seven-hour drive). He was fine. He was happy. He was in his father's world and the world was good and the world had jollof rice and a grandmother who accepts the designation "Two" with grace.

I made nothing special this week. I cooked at the restaurant. Five lunch services. The restaurant was my processing center — the stove was my therapy, the cornbread was my meditation, the customers were my proof that the world keeps going even when your youngest child is seven hours away eating orange food in another woman's kitchen. The world keeps going. The cornbread keeps baking. The table is still set.

I didn’t make cornbread at home that week — cornbread lived at the restaurant, where it was supposed to be, doing the work of keeping me upright. But on the last night before Elijah came home, I needed my hands to do something slow and purposeful in my own kitchen, something that proved the house was still a place where food got made. This sesame French bread is what I reach for when I need the kind of baking that asks you to be patient — the kneading, the waiting, the second rise — because sometimes the waiting is the whole point.

Prep Time: 20 min + 1 hr 30 min rising | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 2 hrs 15 min | Servings: 12 slices

Ingredients

1 package (1/4 oz) active dry yeast
1 cup warm water (110°F to 115°F)
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 to 3 cups all-purpose flour, divided
1 egg white
1 tablespoon cold water
2 tablespoons sesame seeds

Instructions

Activate the yeast. In a large bowl, dissolve the yeast in warm water. Add the sugar and let stand for 5 to 8 minutes, until foamy. If it doesn’t foam, your water was too hot or too cold — start again.
Build the dough. Stir in the salt and 2 cups of the flour until a shaggy dough forms. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 6 to 8 minutes, adding the remaining flour a little at a time, until the dough is smooth and elastic and springs back when you poke it.
First rise. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl, turning once to coat. Cover with a clean kitchen towel and let rise in a warm spot for 1 hour, or until doubled in size.
Shape the loaf. Punch the dough down gently. On a lightly floured surface, shape it into a long, narrow oval loaf about 14 inches long. Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.
Second rise. Cover loosely and let rise for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 375°F.
Score and top. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg white and cold water. Brush evenly over the top and sides of the loaf. Sprinkle generously with sesame seeds. Use a sharp knife to cut 3 or 4 diagonal slashes across the top, about 1/2 inch deep.
Bake. Bake at 375°F for 22 to 26 minutes, until the loaf is deep golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing.

Nutrition (per serving)

Sesame French Bread — The Loaf I Made While the Restaurant Kept Me Whole