By 
Fact for sure: My grandmother, Nannie, could make the best Snickerdoodle cookies. Too bad, then, that’s not her claim to fame (or she is infamy) to her in her small hometown. Because it’s there, in the quiet farm settings of California’s San Joaquin Valley, that the sweetest little old lady this side of Pasadena was known for something the locals would derisively call disciplinary bread.
Nannie was a God fearing woman who attended church, well, religiously. And as an ever-attentive 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 tried it first: “And if I collapse, don’t eat it!” Nannie’s pies were the only pies that ended up under the bake sale table. On this one issue, the congregation unanimously agreed: If Myrtle brings a cake to any potluck/bake sale/fundraiser, quickly tape it under and away from anything edible. Or send it to the Catholic Church across the street.
He meant well, as the enchilada casserole for the church picnic story attests. As he climbed out of his Dodge Rambler with his steaming hot plate, each member of the church whispered, like in the game Telephone, warning the next to “watch out for the enchilada casserole.” Nannie proudly placed the suspect dish on the buffet table with all the other macaroni: pork and beans, stroganoffs, and fried chicken, and saw her good friend, Mrs. Carmecito, one of the nicest ladies in the church. . Following the execution of what ecclesiastical tradition would label The Carmecito Sign, The Nannie Squad would descend upon Corningware’s blue and white plate and churn it under the table where she could do no harm. One time Einstein, who was Mrs. Carmecito’s terrier dog, sniffed the plate under the table and proceeded to take half of the main course. She soon saw poor Einstein dragging his butt across the ground and howling for the duration of the picnic. Witnesses swear they saw flames coming out of poor little Einstein’s butt. The enchiladas that burned her butt on the way out were a warning: Woe to the victims of Myrtle casserole!
He once made pyracantha jam. I really don’t even know what a pyracantha is, but my mom insists to this day that they are poisonous berries. Nannie brought a couple of jars over to our house and Mom called Dad to tell him that Nannie’s mom was trying to kill us with pyracantha jam. Papa told her not to be stupid; that he had eaten Nannie’s food all her life and that he was still alive. Mom just muttered, “That explains it.”
Back to the disciplinary bread: someone in the village finally called it that because no one knew what else to call it. When Nannie made dinner for her children, she saved all her leftovers. At the end of the week, she would take her trusty meat grinder and grind whatever leftovers she had. Salmon, apple pie, leftover tuna sandwiches, spaghetti, you name it; she put it in the meat grinder. It would emerge as a gray piece of matter that she would form into blocks. This pasta is what she would serve her guests and children for lunch, carefully sandwiched between two slices of bread. (Everyone knew she wasn’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 long way between noon and two. She would invite them, of course, but they would all leave. And I really don’t know how my dad survived childhood, since he reportedly ate a DL sandwich for lunch every day of his young life. He was a brave man. He once told me that when he came to school every day, her teacher, Miss Broad, would trade her sandwich for one she had made. They never told Nannie because 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 heard that Mr. Linden was feeling a bit unwell, so she showed up at his door with a block of gray matter and told him it was good for what ailed him. However, Tales of The Loaf had preceded Nannie, and after thanking her profusely for her kindness, she set the loaf on the kitchen counter to dispose of later. Mr. Linden, who was heading to bed later that night, decided that 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 it to be a big old bear, standing right there, two meters 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 his hind legs and began to growl. Mr. Linden thought he was lost. Eagerly reaching for a weapon, the closest thing to him was Nannie’s disciplinary bread, which he grabbed and threw as hard as he could. He heard a thud as the loaf hit the bear’s head, knocking the unsuspecting bear unconscious. Mr. Linden ran away and dumped the nearest neighbor to call animal control.
Nannie’s disciplinary loaf was in the paper. The whole town woke up to the headline: Bear’s late-night visit never mind slacking off. Nannie never made disciplinary bread again.