At our house, bread making was a ritual, reliable and grounding in its weekend occurrence, something to be repeated, revisited, and awaited. It would happen on Saturdays when there was time to spare; the bread was begun and then tended when a moment allowed. Occasionally, it was forgotten, but bread tolerates life and interruptions relatively well. It is not egg whites in a mixer or pastry cream on medium heat; it is a process of waiting, sprinkled with bits of activity. Mix, then wait. Shape, then wait. Load the oven, then wait. In a corner of our kitchen at a counter with an east-facing window gathering light and illuminating puffs of flour as a wooden spoon moved in circles, my father or mother was the baker. Twenty-five pounds of dough at a time were mixed in our largest wooden bowl. As with the biscuits, the recipe was variable; but, in broad terms, it was a blend of all-purpose white flour and coarse whole wheat flour, spring water, oil, honey or molasses, salt and dry yeast. Sometimes even the leftover oatmeal from the morning would be dumped into the batch if it hadn’t been fed to the dog. The dough was mixed with a wooden spoon before being hand-kneaded until a piece pulled from the mass sprang back. In summer, encouraged by southern heat and humidity, the dough might grow enough to spill over the counter, expanding in all directions, unrestricted, leaving its mark to be scraped off cupboards at some point, or never. A benefit of a lengthy rise (what bakers refer to as fermentation) is that flavor is given time to develop—I didn’t know any of this as a child but, passing the large, bran-flecked mound of dough scantily clad with embroidered dish towels on the counter, I would reach under to pinch a piece of dough, leaving the mark of two fingers and hole. And what a flavor, gently sweet, slightly acidic and yeasty, a delicious preview of wheaty things to come. It was weighed into two-pound pieces, shaped, and put in pans for the final rise, then baked until browned and hollow to the thump. What does bread baking smell like in heaven? It smells like bread baking. How could the afterlife possibly improve on the aroma of 540 identified volatile chemical compounds that defy scientific imitation creating the most universally accepted and loved smell in the world? These days I’ve learned to wait until this aroma calms and the bread has cooled before slicing. Cutting it hot releases moisture into the air, prematurely halting the process during which starches settle and the loaf temperature equalizes. Waiting is similar to allowing a chicken or steak to rest before slicing. But did we wait as kids? Hell no. We would saw through an entire loaf straight from the oven, stacking cut slices wedged with butter between them so that it would melt quickly. We gobbled the first slices with garlic on them—our savory course—and then we’d slather them with honey for dessert.

But, while this bread sustained us at home, it was shameful in the school lunch box. Sitting at the lunchroom table, surrounded by classmates and their blue or red milk choices, I would have given a kidney for that 1970s staple: crustless Wonder bread with Skippy and Smucker’s grape jelly glue. I would have gladly sported an orange mouth ring of Cheetos crumbs and devoured a frosted Hostess cake in order that their chemicals could swirl kaleidoscopic in my gut. Not only are those foods designed for deliciousness, but carrying them in my lunch box would have been a ticket to belonging, an escape route from the requisite explanation of why I had rugged wheat bread slices spackle-bound with homemade peanut butter. Life in the chicken coop of elementary school is tough on young birds; spots are pecked, blemishes highlighted. Even today I find myself compensating where I can, giving care to my children’s lunches in order that they might survive. I like to imagine them opening their lunch boxes to envious eyes rather than teasing mouths. Carefully wrapped fresh muffins, crusty baguettes with butter, soups made from scratch, rich pastas in heated containers, a bonanza in every lunch box. And, while I may have decried that bread, even hidden it, years later I have turned things around. I’ve headed back to this form, which is entirely more delicious and healthy than plump factory loaves pumped with chemicals ranging from azodicarbonamide (also used in floor mats) to potassium bromate (known carcinogen). Supermarket aisles are proof that if you add enough high-fructose corn syrup, preservatives, and stabilizers, people will still eat the packaged stuff months after it is produced. And, I would argue, meeting the bar of being edible isn’t enough, not anymore. Bread deserves more, food deserves more, and most important, we deserve more. And we can have it quite easily. We are in the midst of a baking renaissance; more and more of us are using food as an opportunity to connect ourselves to our environment through eating, to handcraft through mindful ingredient choices and traditional methods. If you are new to bread making I encourage you to begin here, with this basic loaf. You can find, or return to, your own connection with this timeless staple, as I did.