Breadmaking

I told my mom last week that I would like to make all our family’s bread, assuming this would be both more economical and enjoyable than buying loaves from the store. So on Thursday I made my second batch of bread ever—a whole wheat loaf, only slightly sticky in the center.

My confidence bolstered, on Saturday morning I set out to make two loaves of white bread—the only kind my dad will eat. After dissolving the yeast and mixing the ingredients, the real fun began with kneading. Curving my fingers around the warm dough, I pressed down with the heels of my palms, then rotated the sticky lump in a quarter turn as I folded it. Press, turn, fold. My hands and fingers slowly recovered an ancient rhythm.

Then the tricky part—waiting for the bread to rise. Our house is notoriously cold, so I shut the dough in a tiny downstairs bathroom that stays warm (though definitely not the recommended 80-85 degrees). After the first successful rise, I “punched” down one loaf, and carried the other one upstairs to dad, wanting him to take part in this process.

“Punch it,” I said.

He looked at me quizzically and gave the dough a hesitant nudge. After I explained the correct method, he said, “When you say punch it, I think you mean PUNCH it,” demonstrating the kind of slug I picture him giving a creep attacking my mom or me.

Thankfully, the bread escaped my dad’s upper-cross and finally emerged from the oven, golden on top and fluffy white in the center. All three of us enjoyed slices, and I declared (perhaps prematurely…) that I would be happy to make bread every Saturday that I am home. We’ll see how that goes.

In other news, I have a job (for the moment) doing some editing for a friend of ours. While I’m grateful to be working, by the end of the day I just want to get off the computer and stop reading. Still, I am making my way through Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand and reading The Pursuit of God by A. W. Towzer.

Or I just retreat to the kitchen and get my hands covered in flour.

Girl Meets Pickup

This is crazy.

Several times during the momentary divorce from reality (also known as finals week) at Grove City, I promised to start a blog and tell my fellow Grovers what it's like out there in the "real world." Funny how writing research papers about literature is much less intimidating than dealing with the stuff of daily life. Well, I promised, so here goes.

Soon after I got home (to a surprise snowstorm that left us housebound), I received an early Christmas present from my parents. When my dad got a new company truck, they gave me his old one: a dark blue 2001 Dodge Dakota. If you are laughing right now picturing me driving a pickup, I don't blame you. Nevertheless, this is my first vehicle and I am suitably thrilled. (I named the truck Brego, for you Lord of the Rings fans out there.)

New truck = increased incentive to get a job. So like the bright-eyed new graduate I am, I began typing hopeful search terms like "editor," and "publishing" into Craigslist's job database. Several days later, after applying to an admin assistant position and setting up and interview with a temp agency, I felt frustrated and inadequate. I was nervous about the interview, nervous they would give me a typing exam, or maybe a spelling test. I drove to the mall and bought a suit at Ann Taylor, hoping to at least look professional.

It was when I got my final grades from GCC that I realized how silly I am. While all the work and late nights studying had "paid off" on paper, in a few moments I had forgotten it and was back to obsessing about getting a job. All the stress translated into maybe 20 minutes of thankfulness before I was looking at the next impossible hurdle. That's one cycle that's going to stop.

So I guess my first lesson from the real world is to quit worrying. Really.