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An unmistakable fact: my grandmother, Nannie, could make the best Snickerdoodle cookies. Too bad, then, that this isn’t his claim to fame (or is it infamy) in his little hometown. Because it’s there, in the peaceful agricultural surroundings of California’s San Joaquin Valley, that the sweetest old lady on this side of Pasadena was known for what locals would ridiculously call disciplinary bread.

Nannie was a God-fearing woman who attended church, well, religiously. And as the ever vigilant churchgoer, Nannie believed it was her duty to bake pumpkin pie for the church bake sale. At least I think it was pumpkin pie; I didn’t try it because my mom forbade me to eat something Nannie had cooked unless mom tasted it first: “And if I collapse, don’t eat it!” Nannie’s cakes were the only cakes that ended up under the bake sale table. On this single issue, the congregation unanimously agreed: If Myrtle brought a cake to any potluck / bake sale / fundraiser, quickly put it below and away from anything edibles. Or send it to the Catholic Church across the street.

He meant well, as the enchilada casserole for the church picnic story will attest. As he got out of his Dodge Rambler with his steaming hot plate, all the church members whispered forward, just like in the Telephone game, warning the next one to “watch out for the enchilada casserole.” Nannie proudly placed the suspicious plate on the buffet table with all the other pork macaroni and bean stroganoffs and fried chicken, and saw her good friend, Mrs. Carmecito, one of the kindest ladies in church. Following the execution of what church tradition would label the Carmecito Sign, the Nannie Squad would descend onto the blue and white Corningware plate and place it under the table where it could do no harm. Once Einstein, who was Mrs. Carmecito’s terrier dog, sniffed the plate under the table and proceeded to go down the middle of the doorway. Soon poor little Einstein was seen sliding his butt across the ground and howling throughout the picnic. Witnesses swear they saw flames coming out of poor Einstein’s butt. The enchiladas that burned his butt on the way out were a warning: Woe to the victims of Myrtle’s casserole!

He once made piracanta jam. I really don’t even know what a piracanta is, but my mom insists to this day that they are poisonous berries. Nannie brought a couple of jars to our house and Mom called Dad to tell him that her mother was trying to kill us with piracanta jam. Dad told her not to be stupid; that he had eaten Nannie’s food all his life and was still alive. Mom just mumbled, “That explains it.”

Returning to the disciplinary bread: Someone in the village finally named it that way because no one knew what to call it. When Nannie made dinner for her children, she put away all the leftovers. At the end of the week, he would grab his trusty meat grinder and shred the leftovers he had. Salmon, apple pie, leftover tuna sandwiches, spaghetti, you name it; put it in the meat grinder. It would emerge as a chunk of gray matter that she would form into blocks. This anointing is what she would serve her guests and children for lunch, carefully sandwiched between two slices of bread. (Everyone knew they weren’t supposed to go to Myrtle’s for lunch.) Nannie could never understand why she didn’t have visitors around noon. Even the Fuller Brush Men would take the longest road between noon and two. She would surely invite them, but they would all withdraw. And I really don’t know how my dad survived childhood as he reportedly had a DL sandwich for lunch every day of his young life. He was a brave man. She once told me that when she came to school every day her teacher, Miss Broad, would trade her sandwich for one that she had made. They never told Nannie as they didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I would like to take this opportunity to thank Miss Broad for saving my father’s life.

But the bread itself was not the reason for the legend that is still told today from Bakersfield to Sacramento. Nannie’s infamous bread was responsible for saving Mr. Linden’s life.

Nannie had learned that Mr. Linden was feeling a little bad, so she appeared at her front door with a block of gray matter and told her that he was good at what ailed him. However, Tales of The Loaf had preceded Nannie, and after thanking her profusely for her consideration, she left the loaf on the kitchen counter to dispose of later. Mr. Linden, who was on his way to bed later that night, decided he needed a snack. The bread was still on the table; he had forgotten to throw it away. At that moment he heard a noise in the far corner of the kitchen. A flick of the light switch revealed that it was a big old bear, standing right there, six feet from him. The back door was open but he was between the door and the bear. At that moment, the black bear reared up on its hind legs and began to growl. Mr. Linden thought he was lost. Eagerly searching for a weapon, the closest thing within reach was Nannie’s disciplinary bread, which she grabbed and pulled as hard as she could. He heard a thud as the bread hit the bear’s head, knocking the unsuspecting ursine unconscious. Mr. Linden escaped and went to the nearest neighbor to call animal control.

Nannie’s disciplinary bread played the part. The whole town woke up to the headline: Bear’s nightly visit is no laziness. Nannie never made disciplinary bread again.

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