Bread

I’ve realized that there are some things that I will cook by myself and others that require another person. Its not that they cannot be done alone or that I don’t know what I am doing but more that I associate that dish with other people and cannot conceive of making it on my own. There are always grand plans of making green chili or risotto churning in the back of the mind, but somehow it just never happens. I need that push of being home, fighting for control of the spatula with my mom and having my dad’s impressive appetite waiting for the creation.


So this weekend I have been home, babysitting Cocoa and Luna, our two dogs, and I of course came home with the big idea that I could get some baking done. Bread to be more specific. Like everyone else, I love bread. Really, is there anyone who when asked says, “oh no, I really just don’t care for bread.”? Nope, pretty sure that person doesn’t exist. There are many people who don’t like certain kinds of breads; white bread vs. wheat, baguette vs. country loaf, soft vs. crusty; but that’s certainly not the same thing as disliking bread entirely. Pretty sure there is some kind of bread in every culture in this world from the French baguette all the way to a Mexican tortilla, which probably explains the universal love for this simple staple of the human diet.


So a weekend at home by myself, with a large kitchen unencumbered by a roommate’s culinary creations and an oven that can be trusted seemed like a perfect opportunity. Yet somehow the hours slipped by and the allure of fresh, home-baked bread remained an imaginary ideal. Bread has settled itself in my mind as something that is done with other people. The hours spent waiting for the dough to rise seemed empty and lonely without someone to laugh and joke with.


During my sejour in Bordeaux, my host dad and I would bake up a loaf occasionally. The bread coming out as a dense country loaf bursting with seeds and always on the edge of being too yeasty since he always wanted it to be lighter and bigger, not realizing that he’d need a different recipe and probably more time to let it rise. Upon my return, my dad and I finally made good on our plans to bake together. When my parents were first married my dad would bake bread often, but with the passing of years and the busyness of work the baking turned into a lovely memory. However, after persistent begging and a need for bonding time after four months of separation, we made it happen.


We went on a mad baking storm Christmas day, with frantic trips to find a grocery store that was open and not sold out of yeast, cutting down recipes to make up for the fact that none could be found and then deciding to make extra bread when more yeast appeared from swirling black hole of the pantry. The entire afternoon and evening were spent mixing, kneading, finding an excellent use for the poor, ignored warming oven (as a warm, dry place to let the dough rise) and much impatient waiting as the breads rose, then were punched down, only to rise again, be punched, formed and risen again before even making it into the oven.


It was truly delightful, a pleasure for all the senses, and a wonderful time for just spending an afternoon with my dad. We both enjoyed being dusted with flour and mixing the dough with our fingers. And of course, the best was when the loaves finally came out of the oven, smelling like heaven and bursting steam with the first cut of the bread knife. Spread with butter which instantly melted into the white flesh of the slice there was a moment nearing perfect ecstasy eating those fresh, warm bites of our creation. Thus, no bread was baked despite the best of intentions, but I can always hope for more bonding time to come.