Baking Bread.

I usually bake bread in November for Thanksgiving dinner and to give as holiday gifts. But I wanted to give a loaf as a housewarming present and since it was rainy and cold this morning, it didn’t seem unreasonable to be indoors for 4 hours and turn on the oven in mid-July.

Baking bread is a very tactile and physical endeavor. First, I plunge my hands into the squishy mixture of yeast, water, flour, salt, butter, and molasses and blend it until it’s firm enough to turn out and knead.  Then the rhythm takes over. Quarter turn, fold, press. Quarter turn, fold, press. Putting my body weight into the motion. Feeling the texture of the dough change under my hands.

I wait for it to rise once, punch it down, form three loaves and let them rise again. Only once in all my years of baking bread did the dough not rise, yet each time I wait with some trepidation.

I bake until golden brown, savoring the aroma that fills the house.

Bread has been sustaining life for centuries. When my grandmother died, I inherited her wooden bread board. As I bake, I feel connected to her and the generations that preceded her. I feel connected to the earth and to the people who transformed wheat into the flour I will further transform into something appealing and nourishing. I regard breaking bread with someone as sacred.

I give bread in the hope that it will give pleasure. But since I can’t taste it before gifting it, as I would one cookie from a batch, I am taking a risk, making myself vulnerable. I bake only for people I trust to forgive me if it fails to meet expectations but hoping they will experience the joy that went into baking it.