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.