I make bread. Up until recently I’d been making it about once a week.
I do a white/wheat mix with instant yeast. Two cups white, three cups wheat, and then whatever flour is needed to keep the dough from sticking to the counter. Three cups water, including the cup that goes in with the yeast and sugar. And a tablespoon of salt. (Never forget the tablespoon of salt…)
I’m thinking of maybe getting a sourdough starter type thing, because that could be yummy and everyone likes sourdough. (Except the people who don’t obviously.)
I like whiter bread better, because it’s fluffier. I also tend to have better luck with the crust then. (I really don’t know what’s wrong with my crusts. They fall off. What kind of crust falls off?)
I like making bread.
It’s easy, but it feels hard, so I feel accomplished when I’m done. And other people think it’s impressive. And it’s yummy when it’s fresh. (Although, only when it’s fresh. My bread does not keep well. It gets very crumbly, and very thick.)
The kneading is fun. It’s work, too. It makes me sweat. And I can do it to music, like cleaning. Except, I run out of cleaning.
(I wish I didn’t run out of cleaning. There are so many things that are harder to do, that I don’t want to do, ever, that I feel like I could get out of if there was just more to clean… But there’s a point at which that’s ridiculous, and things being clean is just really not that important.)
It’s so cool how the dough rises. You kneed it and kneed it and you have this little ball, and then you tuck it up like a child and (instead of getting up and demanding to be taken to the bathroom) it just grows. And then it’s bigger! Which is cool. And it feels and silky and soft.
Like the most excellent blanket.
Except if you tried to use it as a blanket it would get sticky all over you.
I like the rhythm. It feels, right. It feels old. Like I belong to something, or know a secret art known only to the select few. (And everyone with access to the internet, obviously, but hey.)
It used to feel prayerful. There was a time when I made bread nearly every day. And I would be up, in the pale light of the early morning, and making bread before anyone else got up.
And there was a time when I felt like it helped. Because I made bread every day and it got eaten every day. And that felt… good.
Because it feels good to be appreciated. And it feels good to have worked hard on something that turned out right.