I grew up in a family with really good cooks; my momma, both of my grandmothers, my aunts, even my daddy. Their food may not have been the healthiest but it was always yummy! Growing up my Momma made homemade bread every single week. I can still recall her large ceramic crock barely containing the white sticky dough expanding as it rose. I half expected it to explode all over the house like a balloon would do if pushed passed its capacity. Momma would always cover the dough with a dishtowel and often the bread rose so far that there was a gap between the towel and the top of the crock. Occasionally as Momma prepared the dough for the oven, she would pinch off small pieces and fry it for us. It was my favorite! When she called us into the house to present the fried bread, my brother and I knew we were in for a treat! She fried those small pieces of dough in butter and served it with jam or honey. Every single bite was a mouthful of buttery soft bre...