Breads of Change
Ornella Renna-Suzuki
In many societies bread plays a fundamental role in social interaction and customs. It's only natural then that the gradually increasing reliance on commercially made breads reflects significant social changes.
In Racale, a small Italian town, the oven no longer plays a vital role in families' daily lives. While some women still prepare their dough at home and bring it to the communal oven to be baked in the traditional way, more people are now relying on the baker for their bread. The making of homemade breads is quickly becoming a peripheral part of Racalian society.
Racale, historically known as Eraclea, owes its name to the Greek mythological figure Hercules. This small but steadily expanding community of 10,500 lies approximately six kilometres from the Ionian coast in the Salento region, a peninsula in the southernmost stretch of land of the Puglie. The climate is entirely Mediterranean, with mild wet winters and hot, dry, breezy summers. Rain is somewhat scarce, falling mostly in winter. Still mainly an agricultural society, the area in which Racale is located has groves of olive trees, vineyards and flower farms scattered across its red-earthed landscape.
Racale enjoys a relatively high standard of living and a somewhat strong sense of community. Everyone, it seems, knows each other, and while keeping a mental count of who's who is becoming difficult indeed, residents still place a certain importance on assigning others to their proper family tree. When initiating any interaction with a local who does not recognize you, it may be necessary to "identify" yourself, relatively speaking. This entails explaining who you "belong to" by metaphorically "climbing up your family tree" and naming your closest ancestor, until the listener is able to place you. Having to go back a few generations is not unusual.
Currently, there are six bakeries in Racale, of which only two are considered traditional. A few of the modern bakeries also serve as a sort of mini-market where customers can buy foodstuffs such as pasta, bottled water, and juice along with their bread. In these shops, the oven is located in the back and separated from the display or vending area. The bakery I shop at is the oldest known one in the area. This communal oven has been in the same family for approximately two hundred years. The unassuming front door of the bakery, with no sign of any sort indicating its existence, leads into a single room where father and son churn out crusty, freshly baked bread.
According to this family, these past twenty years have seen a drastic change. Only a handful of women, none of whom are younger than sixty years old, bring their dough to be baked once every fifteen days or so. Baking one's own bread used to offer the opportunity to display one's talents as a housewife, cook and mother. But members of the younger generation are eagerly relinquishing the old traditions, saying that they just can't be bothered. Some claim eating bread that keeps over a few days and therefore becomes hard seems a ridiculous waste of time when they can just stop by one of the new local supermarkets.
These extensive supermarkets, which sell everything from groceries to home furnishings, have become quite popular in recent years. Exclusive shops and boutiques are not within the reach of everyone and can be very intimidating to enter if one does not have a specific purpose or the necessary attire.
Entering a small traditional shop is somewhat like entering someone's private home, and although you are the customer, you are also allowing yourself to be scrutinized and evaluated for any potential source of gossip, which on a dull day is of course most appreciated.
On the contrary, there is a sort of anonymity when shopping in one of these large supermarkets which small shops and their surroundings do not offer. One can drive up, park the car and lose oneself among the aisles bursting with bargains and items that are accessible to practically everyone. The simple act of buying commercially made bread is therefore, in a sense, a liberation for some, not only in terms of the time and effort needed to make it, but also in terms of the privacy a woman acquires as a result. A communal oven is public, yet intimate enough a place to learn about everyone's business.
Having said this, I remember when I used to pop by the old bakery for my warm loaf of bread. There before me was the usual group of loyal customers hovering outside the door, eagerly anticipating the moment when bread was ceremoniously removed from the oven and lovingly wrapped in crispy brown paper. Could this be after all, just momentary respite from modern convenience?
I promise to look into the matter this summer.
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