Reading - Task 3

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

Why is the narrator feeling stressed?

• A. The narrator does not want to move away.

• B. The narrator dislikes baking bread with father.

• C. The narrator does not make the swim team.

• D. The narrator has never made bread.

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What is the meaning of the phrase, “you’d think I was being knighted” in paragraph 5?

• A. It was a chance to do something with Dad after work.

• B. It was an opportunity to improve my bread-baking skills.

• C.It was exciting to use the new stainless steel mixing bowl.

• D. It was an honor to be included in my father’s baking activities.

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

The word deflated is used in paragraph 8, which word is the antonym of deflated?

• A. contracted

• B. expanded

• C. collapsed

• D. swerved

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What type of figurative language is found in the sentence, “Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled”?

• A) irony

• B) simile

• C) metaphor

• D) hyperbole

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What does the author suggest would fill the emptiness of blank space?

• A) Baking

• B) Talking

• C) drumming

• D) working

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What is the theme of the story?

• A. It is important to find ways to relax.

• B. It is important to know how to bake bread.

• C. It is difficult to relax in times of stress.

• D. It is difficult to enjoy time with family.

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What organizational pattern is used in the story?

• A. spatial

• B. sequential

• C. compare/contrast

• D. fact/opinion

The Bread Lesson

My dad has watermelon-size biceps, a neck like an inner tube, and enormous, muscular hands that make him seem like he’s always wearing baseball mitts. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would bake great bread, but he is and he does. Every Saturday he puts on his chef’s apron, rolls up his sleeves, breaks out a bag of flour, and produces two loaves of homemade bread. When he’s done, the whole house smells delicious, and I can’t wait for a hot slice smothered with yellow, melting butter.

The rest of the week, Dad is a car mechanic, which involves lots of heavy lifting, tightening, unscrewing, shoving, shaking, yanking, and banging. People tend to think of their cars as metallic members of the family, so there’s lots of pressure on Dad to make sure pumps pump, steering steers, and brakes brake. The shop where Dad works is understaffed, so he’s under a lot of stress. Sometimes I worry he’s going to overheat and blow a gasket or something, like some old car. I think Dad began baking bread to help him relax. I see him in the kitchen, working on a spongy hunk of dough—punching and pounding it into submission.

I’ve been feeling kind of stressed out myself since I found out I didn’t qualify for the swim team. Now I’ll have to wait a whole year to try out again; that might as well be a million years. Plus, I’m taking some tough classes this year, and my best friend moved away.

I think Dad knew I was feeling the pressure. He sat next to me on the sofa last Saturday and asked me how things were going. I said OK, even though I didn’t feel OK at all. He looked at me for a moment, then he said it was time for me to help. He got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. I couldn’t imagine what help I could offer. Still, I followed right behind him. Once we were standing by the counter, Dad gave me one of his old aprons. He slipped it on over my head and tied it in the back with such obvious pride that you’d think I was being knighted, which felt kind of silly but also kind of nice. I was being initiated as a bread-baker.

Next, Dad got out his enormous stainless-steel mixing bowl, handed me a large wooden spoon, and told me to stir while he added the ingredients. He threw in a large handful of flour from a sack. A haze of flour dust began to hover in the air like fog. He then sprinkled salt into the bowl. Dad isn’t big on measuring. He instinctively knows exactly how much of each ingredient to use, and the bread always turns out great. The entire operation was accomplished as if we were part of a NASA space launch. Flour? Check. Yeast? Check. Milk? Check. Sugar, shortening, and salt? Check, check, check.

When I had stirred the flour and milk mixture into a thick, gooey lump, Dad had me turn it over onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. Then he showed me how to knead the dough—repeatedly pushing away at the rubbery glob, stretching it out, pounding it, and folding it in on itself. As I kneaded it, I felt the dough come to life beneath my hands. It took ten minutes and a surprising amount of energy to corral the unruly blob into a neat, round mass.

Next came the most difficult and surprising part – doing nothing. We put the dough back into the metal bowl. Then we waited for more than an hour for the dough to slowly swell up and double in size. Next, we deflated the risen dough by punching it down. We divided it in two and waited for it to rise again. Afterward, we put the dough into pans and waited another hour for the dough to rise and double one last time. Dad said waiting is always the hardest part because of the sharp, sweet smell coming from the yeast. “It’s hard to resist putting the dough directly into the oven, but if you do, the loaves will be small, and the bread will be tough. The most important lesson of all is learning to be patient,” Dad explained.

While we waited, we sat and talked. Silence is a blank space that begs to be filled. It’s like the dough—it swells up and fills a room with emptiness unless you punch it down with words. It felt good to be still and listen to each other. It felt good to open up and share our thoughts. As the flour dust in the kitchen quietly settled, time seemed to slow down. The dough was going to rise at its own pace. We could do nothing to make it rise faster. As I accepted that, I stopped watching the clock and drumming my fingers on the tabletop. I started enjoying the quiet time with Dad. My father taught me how to bake bread, but I think I learned something more. I learned to appreciate the slowly ticking rhythm of time. I learned to relax and let the bread rise.

What is the genre of the passage?

• A) Story

• B) article

• C) essay

• D) poem

Magnificent Divers

If you were a fish, one of the last birds you would want to see flying overhead is a hungry osprey. These majestic birds of prey average two feet in length and may have an incredible six-foot wingspan. These enormous predators are also equipped with long, sharp talons for snagging a meal swimming in the water below.

Ospreys, also known as fish hawks or fishing eagles, have short, hooked beaks and wings that taper to rounded tips. Their coloring ranges from white to dark brown. The white feathers on ospreys’ heads look like little caps, and their wings include a mixture of white and dark brown feathers. Their chests, bellies, and chins are white, and their tails are marked with several white bands, or stripes. Ospreys in flight are easy to identify, thanks to their distinctive plumage, or feathers. Not surprisingly, these birds are related to eagles, hawks, and even vultures. They can live a long time; the average life span in the wild is 18 years. The oldest known osprey lived to be 25 years old.

Ospreys are designed to fly fast and dive at amazing speeds. Soaring one hundred feet above the water, their sharp eyes watch the surface carefully for any telltale signs of fish. Ospreys hover over the water and wait for some indication of activity. Once prey is spotted, the birds fold their wings to their sides and begin a steep dive, plunging nearly straight down at blazing speeds. Usually, ospreys hit the water feet first, plunging completely underwater to catch their food. Water sprays in all directions as the birds reach underwater to grab a fish. They have been seen diving as much as three feet underwater to capture their prey! Once a fish has been snagged in its sharp claws, an osprey soars back up into the sky, pausing in flight just long enough to shake the water from its feathers before flying away to enjoy its meal. To help ospreys hold on to their catch, each of their feet has a unique reversible front toe.

Since their diet is almost entirely fish, ospreys make their homes near water. They live on islands and around bays, such as the Chesapeake Bay between Virginia and Maryland. The birds spend summers in Alaska, Canada, and northwestern parts of the United States. During the colder months, they stay in warmer places like the Caribbean and Central and South America. The Chesapeake Bay is home to the largest nesting population of ospreys in the world. Observers have counted as many as 2,000 pairs. The area has even been called “the osprey garden.”

Like other birds, ospreys like to build their nests in high locations. In some coastal communities, they have built nests on top of electric power poles and towers. This is dangerous and can result in power failures. Some cities build nesting platforms for the big birds to use instead. In other regions, ospreys build nests high in trees or on rock cliffs. Osprey nests have even been found on channel markers and buoys on the water.

Ospreys use their nests repeatedly. When ospreys return to their nests, they spend time repairing them before laying their eggs. Most ospreys lay three eggs at a time. They are about the same size as chicken eggs and take approximately five weeks to hatch. If anything threatening approaches the nest, the ospreys’ usual call of cheep-cheep-cheep turns into an angry cheereek, cheereek. The call means “Get away immediately!”

When the eggs crack open, the chicks, which weigh only about two ounces, crawl out. In less than two months, these tiny birds will have grown enough to take their first flight. It will not be long before a new generation of ospreys is ready to imitate their parents and head out for a tasty meal. 8 With their beautiful coloring, threatening size, and natural ability to bolt out of the sky at high speeds, there is little doubt that ospreys are remarkable birds. Imagine these majestic birds soaring from the heights of the sky and plunging into the depths of the water. It is no surprise that this amazing scene draws attention from people who see it. Ospreys will continue to populate the skies for future generations.

What is the main purpose of paragraph 2?

• A) To compare ospreys to other birds

• B) To discuss the life span of ospreys

• C) To describe the appearance of ospreys

• D) To tell how ospreys protect their young

Magnificent Divers

If you were a fish, one of the last birds you would want to see flying overhead is a hungry osprey. These majestic birds of prey average two feet in length and may have an incredible six-foot wingspan. These enormous predators are also equipped with long, sharp talons for snagging a meal swimming in the water below.

Ospreys, also known as fish hawks or fishing eagles, have short, hooked beaks and wings that taper to rounded tips. Their coloring ranges from white to dark brown. The white feathers on ospreys’ heads look like little caps, and their wings include a mixture of white and dark brown feathers. Their chests, bellies, and chins are white, and their tails are marked with several white bands, or stripes. Ospreys in flight are easy to identify, thanks to their distinctive plumage, or feathers. Not surprisingly, these birds are related to eagles, hawks, and even vultures. They can live a long time; the average life span in the wild is 18 years. The oldest known osprey lived to be 25 years old.

Ospreys are designed to fly fast and dive at amazing speeds. Soaring one hundred feet above the water, their sharp eyes watch the surface carefully for any telltale signs of fish. Ospreys hover over the water and wait for some indication of activity. Once prey is spotted, the birds fold their wings to their sides and begin a steep dive, plunging nearly straight down at blazing speeds. Usually, ospreys hit the water feet first, plunging completely underwater to catch their food. Water sprays in all directions as the birds reach underwater to grab a fish. They have been seen diving as much as three feet underwater to capture their prey! Once a fish has been snagged in its sharp claws, an osprey soars back up into the sky, pausing in flight just long enough to shake the water from its feathers before flying away to enjoy its meal. To help ospreys hold on to their catch, each of their feet has a unique reversible front toe.

Since their diet is almost entirely fish, ospreys make their homes near water. They live on islands and around bays, such as the Chesapeake Bay between Virginia and Maryland. The birds spend summers in Alaska, Canada, and northwestern parts of the United States. During the colder months, they stay in warmer places like the Caribbean and Central and South America. The Chesapeake Bay is home to the largest nesting population of ospreys in the world. Observers have counted as many as 2,000 pairs. The area has even been called “the osprey garden.”

Like other birds, ospreys like to build their nests in high locations. In some coastal communities, they have built nests on top of electric power poles and towers. This is dangerous and can result in power failures. Some cities build nesting platforms for the big birds to use instead. In other regions, ospreys build nests high in trees or on rock cliffs. Osprey nests have even been found on channel markers and buoys on the water.

Ospreys use their nests repeatedly. When ospreys return to their nests, they spend time repairing them before laying their eggs. Most ospreys lay three eggs at a time. They are about the same size as chicken eggs and take approximately five weeks to hatch. If anything threatening approaches the nest, the ospreys’ usual call of cheep-cheep-cheep turns into an angry cheereek, cheereek. The call means “Get away immediately!”

When the eggs crack open, the chicks, which weigh only about two ounces, crawl out. In less than two months, these tiny birds will have grown enough to take their first flight. It will not be long before a new generation of ospreys is ready to imitate their parents and head out for a tasty meal. 8 With their beautiful coloring, threatening size, and natural ability to bolt out of the sky at high speeds, there is little doubt that ospreys are remarkable birds. Imagine these majestic birds soaring from the heights of the sky and plunging into the depths of the water. It is no surprise that this amazing scene draws attention from people who see it. Ospreys will continue to populate the skies for future generations.

The name “the osprey garden” in paragraph 4 gives the reader the impression of —

• A) fields of flowers eaten by ospreys

• B) colorful ospreys that look like flowers

• C) fields filled with flowers and ospreys

• D) ospreys living together as thickly as flowers