the stories of me: Making massa without the mastah'

I'm a Portugee. You may or may not have already known that, but it's a fact. Well...sort of. The truth is, like most other Americans, I'm actually a mutt. But the heritage I have grown up with, connected most with, am learning the language of, and resemble the most, is in fact, the Portuguese side. I may only be 25% Portuguese....but, the physical features that shine through are the Portuguese, I have the attitude of a Portugee, and I can bake like a Portugee. If you know any Portugee's then you know they love their linguica (so delicious) and their bread (carbs are bad?). Specifically the sweet bread, which in my family we call...Massa. The correct spelling is actually Marca, but coming from the northeast, my family calls it Massa...said like it's spelled.

Several years ago, after living in a 3 generation home with my Portuguese grampa, I decided I wanted to learn to make the Massa bread. We only had this bread at Christmas and Easter, and I wanted to carry on the tradition of baking the bread. I sat down at the kitchen table, informed my grampa that I wanted to learn how to make the bread and was excited at the idea of learning the family recipe straight from the source....or so I thought. After I posed the request, I waited for a look from my grampa Manny, of pure joy that his granddaughter was enthusiastic about learning how to make the family bread...yeah right.
Much to my surprise, he looked over at me like I had just told him I was going to enter a body building competition, scoffed, and then proceeded to tell me I would not be strong enough to pound the dough properly. As he looked away and did not entertain my idea any further, I couldn't help but stare at my (all of 110 lbs) grampa, with confusion and disappointment.
"Wait..what? You don't think I'm strong enough to pound the dough properly? I don't think I understand".
"You're not strong enough to pound the dough. Leave it to your brother." He says.
In my stubborn, loud, Portugee little mind, I'm saying...are you kidding me? You don't think I'm strong enough to pound the dough? You're 110 lbs and you can pound the dough...so, what makes you think I'm incapable? ~~wtf~~.
My grampa certainly was a stubborn, critical and extraordinarily hard to please individual...qualities of which I learned to laugh about.
Since I'm a stubborn (take after my grampa) and determined Portugee, I went to plan b and recruited my ever-so-much-stronger older brother to teach me the trade of pounding massa bread. It was Christmas Eve Eve, and he had only been shown once by Grampa Manny, but through a little trial and error, we were able to create our first batch of the sweet bread by ourselves....well, with some drive-by criticisms from grampa as he was passing through the kitchen, but nonetheless. We were proud of our creations and decided it would be a yearly tradition.
At some point my brother trailed off with a busy schedule, and I began making the massa bread without him. Each time with a little improvement, and my mom (an angel) by my side. She was the photographer, dish washer, cheerleader (there's a lot of pounding ya know) and shoulder massager (did I mention she's an angel?). We would always intend to start the bread early in the morning (it takes all day to make), but would always end up finishing the loaves at 10:00 at night. Grampa would give up waiting, bid us goodnight and retire to his room for the night...
Then 10 minutes later, he would reappear from his room, take a seat by the stove, and peer his bald little head around the front of the stove to have a peek. He'd look up at me, eyes wide..."What?" he'd say. "I had to see if something was happening". And then he'd flash a big grin and settle in til the finish. Mom and I would wink at each other with a little smirk, secretly loving grampa's involvement.

Today I baked the bread. And now I live in California, and it was the first time I baked the family bread...without one family member by my side. I didn't think about the significance at first, but as I moved through the process, it was more and more clear that I was missing having my mom and my grampa involved in the process. Before there was always this anxiousness inside of me as I went through all the steps. Each time I would wonder if I would pound the dough enough so it would rise properly, or would it turn out with a case of the "flatsies", as grampa called it. He would always put in his constructive criticism, and each time I would improve from the last. When every loaf was finished, I would analyze each one, finding the most perfect, prized loaf to present to my grampa. After I selected the loaf for him, everyone would stand around as I cut into the family loaf and started giving out thick, hot, steamy, mouthwatering pieces of massa lathered with real butter....dang there is nothing like homemade bread, fresh from the oven.
Today, as I was going through the process, I had to relive all of these memories in my imagination. Although I still had the anxiousness of the final outcome, I didn't have my grampa around to check in with me...and he's not around for me to present him with my prized loaf. His spirit must have been with me today though, because this has to have been my most beautiful batch of massa bread to date. As I watched through the oven door as each loaf rose to the right height (free from a case of the flatsies) and turned a beautiful golden brown in all the right spots, I was so happy and so proud. I was of course texting my mum pictures throughout the process, and she said grampa must be smiling down on me. I said a quick prayer, asking God when he sees my grampa today, to thank him for me. For all the constructive criticism that improved my skills, and all the memories of making the massa bread as a family.