Bread for Life

Do you do this? Do you make a mental list of things you need to do and follow it up with a written list with little boxes on the side so you can check things off? I feel so organized and in control of life when I plan out the jobs I rarely like on paper. The priorities of the day, the things that do not go on the list, are checked off first by the actions I take to accomplish them.
I have a few women (40ish is a few, isn’t it?) coming over to my house for a Cursillo gathering in March. You would think that would be incentive enough to get busy. It is great motivation to make everything comfortable and serene, as well as tidy and clean, but ohhhhh, so difficult to actually do it.
I started in the kitchen, my comfort zone of sunshine and space. It is easy enough to de-clutter a kitchen and feel successful. I pulled out one plastic container after the next of leftovers from the refrigerator shelves and made decisions about each one.. The crystallized apricot jam, gone, the tablespoon of sweet pickle relish, gone, recycle jars and refresh each shelf by disassembling the refrigerator and cleaning it to a sparkling state.
The packets of yeast dated ’08 left me little hope that anything would rise, being a waste of time and resources. Chris Brown played on in the background giving me enough reason to pick up the step and finish the job. I was actually enjoying this experience, seeing progress before me with each horizontal shelf secured back into its place.
I was down to the butter loft that actually lifts to reveal the treasure behind. That is where I found the three attached packets of yeast that would respond until 2010. “Go for it!” my mind cheered. Get out the recipe book and start browsing for something easy, not too complicated, a recipe for success.
I found the book, complete with old photos my mom stuck inside for safekeeping. I saw her face holding Hannah on her lap, as if that was just what I needed for encouragement. I read the heart-to-heart talk James Beard gives at the beginning of his book, Beard on Bread. He talks about keeping it simple and making a product that will take you back to better tastes, and less hurried ways of enjoying life. It sounded like the perfect antidote to the stressed pace of every morning and evening of the past week.
I put two bowls on the counter, opened the yeast packets and poured one into each bowl. I split the remaining packet as evenly as I could between the two, not bad for guessing. I pulled out my containers of flour, sugar, and salt knowing that I had jumped in with two feet to a project before me that wasn’t on my list. Whatever disorder or diagnosis this was I was going for it with gusto. Chris Brown’s, “With You,” kept the motions flowing and I couldn’t stop.
I proofed the yeast by adding the sugar and warm water and watched the explosion build to a full froth. I mixed my unbleached flour and wheat flour with the salt for a healthy twist that would come to no surprise to my family, and added the flour mixture, a bit at a time, until I was ready to move the dough to the granite surface. I placed the stiff dough, sticky to the touch, onto the floured granite and began to knead away.
Kneading is exercise. I felt the heat and imagined the muscles bakers must have. My mind wandered and I felt calm in the process of adding flour to make the dough less sticky. The folding, pressing, working with wrists, forearms, and all of the strength in my arms, checking to see if I could last for the ten minutes the recipe requires, kept me focused on the outcome.
Whew! One loaf down, and placed in the buttered bowl to rise. The phone rang, and it was Mom, checking in to say, “Hi.”
“Hi, Mom, I’ve got my hands messy with bread dough,” I said.
“Don’t you have a machine that does the hard part for you?” she asked.
“I completely forgot about that after reading James Beard’s trip back in time to simpler ways of life,” I said and added, “Plus, I’m getting a workout and messing up my clean kitchen.”
“A clean kitchen is overrated when you are creating,” she said, with her motherly wisdom.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes,” I said, estimating how long it would take to work the second batch, minus the clean-up.
Two hours later, the bowls contained billowing mounds of soft dough, screaming, “Enough! Get us out of here!”
I cut each mound in half and rolled Play-Doh like snakes, two to a cookie sheet, resting on yellow cornmeal. I drew threw diagonal lines on each loaf and brushed them with the egg wash. Ready to go, the cool oven opened up to welcome them inside.
Hannah and I shot baskets outside and turned the game into soccer, then catch, before we smelled the bread. We came inside and watched the loaves turning brown, smelling the yeasty goodness, and anticipated the first taste.
It was timed to perfection, ready to come out just as we were getting ready to pick up Devon and her friend at the high school. I cut three slices of the hot bread and wrapped them in a paper towel.
“This is mine for the road,” Hannah said.
“Ummm, do you love it, Hannah?” I said. “Is this the best bread ever?”
“I said it was good.” Hannah said, wondering what the big deal was.
“Okay, so the beauty is in the process,” I thought. Such is life!