When the timer on the oven beeps, when she can’t stand keeping the loaves locked behind the windowed door any longer, when the bread is perfectly golden brown, it’s time to pull out the serrated knife and soften a stick of butter. Seven-grain bread—the kind right out of Mama’s oven—cannot be beat. The warm and wheat-y aroma swirls through the air, filling it with a scent of my mother’s love. Slathered with smooth, sweet, and salted butter, the steaming slices of bread disappear as fast as Mama can cut them. Like trying to eat just one Cheeto, there is no way I can stop with just one piece of this yeasty goodness.  My sister adds honey, my brothers add jam, I don’t add anything—this bread, slightly drippy with a bit of toasted crunch, can stand on it’s own two feet.