Shape-Shifting: Baking Bread

The first time I attempted bread, I was in my very early twenties. It was in a mountain cabin heated only by a wood-burning stove that was not at the time burning wood. Part of me knew it was too cold in the house for the dough to rise. The other part of me didn’t care. I was going to make bread, dammit. I did everything right. I warmed the bowl into which I put the smooth, rounded globe of dough. I put a dish towel over the bowl, and placed it over the pilot light of my gas stove. And I waited. And waited. Desperate for the miracle to occur, I even warmed up the oven and placed the bowl of reluctant dough into the oven, but to no avail. Three hours later, I still had the original ball of heavy, moist dough, nowhere near risen.

Baking bread is not for amateurs. I consulted the experts—bread-baking books, my baking genius grandmother-in-law—and added their wisdom to the lesson of my previous attempt. The next time, I was ready. On a warm afternoon, I assembled the raw ingredients within the confines of a large bowl. Is there anything as amorphous as bread dough? Flour, water, yeast, perhaps some salt and sugar. Raw, simple substances found in most kitchens outside of Asia. They are so loose, these kitchen elements, so unwilling to have some form of their own that they must be corralled into a bowl in order to stay put. It was time to unleash the other catalyst, my hands. The point of making bread is to let the hands explore their power—that and having something heavenly to eat as an extra added attraction.

The warm room helped the dough to rise. My hands helped to knead it back down, in order to coax texture and sheen into the dough. It’s such a primitive dynamic, the yeast and the hands, rising and falling, rising again and punching down, until the mass (still shapeless but no longer loose) has just the right elasticity. I punched the dough down with my fist. Ha! What fun it was to play rough with the dough. Of course, there was some waiting for the dough to rise, but it didn’t take as long this time, and eventually it was ready to pop into a bread pan and place into the hot oven. Soon the house was suffused with an ancient aroma. My senses did a little dance and my nostrils opened wide. Nervously, I opened the oven door. Had the dough browned, the top risen, the edges pulled free of the pan? I was elated. The formerly raw and uncooperative dough now rose proudly into a dome worthy of Brunelleschi.

I removed the pan from the oven, waited the required but very long ten minutes, and then popped it out onto a wire rack. It was a beautiful color, with a faintly yeasty perfume. I marveled at the miraculous transformation from shapeless goo to golden brown loaf. When I could stand it no longer, I sliced a piece. You’ve never seen butter pulled out of a refrigerator faster than at that moment. As you’ve already guessed, it tasted good enough to worship. I had discovered that baking was not only righteous labor involving my hands and a few humble elements, but that the world could be shaped, and reshaped, with a bit of care, patience, and appetite.