I remember my mother making raisin bread. She got out a huge stainless roasting pan, and would start warming the flour on top of the stove, while the double-boiler insert sat on another burner filled with raisins, water, 2 sticks of butter. She never measured. [One of my older sisters once stood by with measuring cups, catching flour as Mom poured it into the pan, and managed to get a fairly good written recipe. But none of us have Mom's 'hands' for kneading.] When the dough was mixed and kneaded, she'd cover the pan with a kitchen towel, wrap it in a woolen blanket and tuck it into the corner of the couch to rise. She used her mother's bread pans, crusted black from use. When the loaves had cooled a bit, she would pick up a loaf and tap the Sign of the Cross on the bottom of the loaf with the 'slicer', and what followed this silent prayer was Heaven! Nothing will ever compare to that bread.

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