For the Love of Bread — Translucent Matter

Baking bread is like kissing, I learned in my bones by doing, and it is different every time. Even if the mechanics are the same.

About two years ago, in May, 2017, a co-worker and I exchanged a kombucha mother, technically known as a scoby, for some sourdough starter. When the exchange happened, all I could think about was making fresh bread. I didn’t think about what I was getting into. Kombucha only takes about fifteen minutes of hands-on prep. The fermentation happens on its own in a dark corner on my counter. Baking sourdough is way more involved, and I have come to believe that it is closer to an art form and a spiritual practice, then simply making food. There is a reason bread shows up in so many religious rituals: communion in Christian traditions- this is my body, or the Pagan harvest ritual Lammas. And now, in the time of Covid, I understand why so many have turned to baking, especially bread.

Before baking the first time, I watched videos, on YouTube. I also grilled my friend for details. How do you know the dough is ready? Can it be over proved? Can you kill your starter? As with most of my worries, when I let go of overthinking, and settle into my body, it all works out. Besides, humans have been making bread for millennia.

This wax flower plant (Hoya carnosa) was propagated by my mom 45 years ago.

My kitchen is small, with little workspace. I bought a kitchen cart with a wood butcher block top, a kitchen scale, and the Tartine recipe book on bread. I already had my mom’s cast iron Dutch oven that she bought in the 1950s. (Yes, it is almost 70 years old and has lovely patina.) I worked the wood top with a beeswax salve I made. I fed my sourdough starter on a Friday morning, by the afternoon, it was bubbly and ready.

Afternoon is the prettiest time in my kitchen because the golden northern light bounces off the yellow walls, and filters through the climbing wax flower plant in the window. The light felt like a good omen. I followed the recipe for Basic Country Bread from the Tartine book. About halfway through the process, I realized I had to leave for an eye appointment. I didn’t calculate the proving time for the dough correctly. When I came back, my dough was huge. I picked up the bowl and fumbled. The dough fell out, on to the edge of the butcher block, and almost fell on the floor, like a slinky. I debated throwing the dough out. Instead I decided to finish the steps. The next morning, after the refrigerator prove, I baked. My house smelled delicious, and although the bread was a little flat because I over proved, it was bread. An actual loaf of bread. I felt so proud, I gasped, then cried, just a little.

Although my first bake was clumsy, I felt like I was tapping into my familial lineage, especially my Germanic and Eastern European heritage. It was like my hands knew what to do. Working the dough made sense. I think that connection is the origin of my overwhelming emotion when I saw my first loaf. I have read about trauma passed along through DNA, what about joy? What I do know is that baking bread heals me. It slows me down and keeps me in the moment, similar to meditation, except that there’s, you know, bread.

I need to stop now and describe the way my starter smells. I get up from writing, walk from my pale green living room couch, to my yellow kitchen, pick up the starter jar, peel back the kitchen cloth held in place by a rubber band, and inhale. A deep whiff, like when my nose is against a lover’s nape. My starter is pungent, but sweet, like a mix of an over ripe plum and beer. After baking, my hands smell like starter for hours, even after washing.

Now my aspiration is to bake every week. Dig into your sense memory and conjure up the smell of toast. Now magnify that memory by one hundred. That’s my kitchen on baking day. I have learned that it is better to let the bread cool for about half an hour before slicing. It is still warm. I slice the end off, and take a bite. No butter, no jam. Just melt-in-your mouth, whole wheat bread.

What do you make that is deeply satisfying?

PS- Do you want to know why it’s important to work the dough and starter with your hands? It’s all about microbiomes. I’ll share my fascination in a future blog.

PPS-I have a miller! And his name is Isaac. Also, a forthcoming blog.