“Your great grandmother was revered for her bread baking.” My aunt’s eyes started to mist as she told the story of Edna’s bread baking. There was nothing spectacular about Edna’s bread – no magical powers, no new recipes, nothing extra added. Nothing. I still couldn’t figure out why we were still telling stories about such a trivial act. But Edna’s – and our family’s – reputation hinged on what I thought to be a misunderstanding.
I was happy I hadn’t become her namesake as there wasn’t enough room in the small town lore for two Edna McKenzie’s. My mom had been the lucky descendant who had yet to live up to the fame of the original Edna. My mother was still trying to live up to the identity that was thrust upon her, but truth be told, she was a terrible baker. She tried hard and prayed to the Gods of Yeast because if she didn’t succeed there would be no inheritance. And if there was no inheritance, there was no future. But I guess the joke was on me because I was the only one in the family who could bake bread.