To Capture the Magic

Whether it was the memory of mama’s ivory baby-bottom loaves lining the countertop, filling the air with yeasty aroma, or just some primal urge to fabricate something from scratch, over and over again I felt drawn to the kitchen to bake bread.  My collected recipes made lofty promises of whole grain health—melt-in-your-mouth carbohydrate confection wrapped in golden buttery crusts.

One of my books had a recipe next to a homey picture of a white-haired elderly couple, smiling proudly over an enormous bounty of perfect little sesame-topped loaves.  Another hippie-type baker in leggings and a gauzy blouse and skirt presented her rustic round loaves fresh from an outdoor adobe oven some place in the wilds of Montana.  The bounty on my table felt and looked like rocks.

Where was the magic? 

Mix, stir, thump.  Turn, thump, turn, and thump again.  Catharsis.  Thump, thump. Where was the magic that could transform my little blobs of organic grain into the mouth-watering delicacies that graced the pages of my batter-splattered recipe books?  It most often eluded me.

Some days, my labors seemed heaven-kissed, and I presented delectable golden brown loaves to my admiring husband. Pass the butter and strawberry jam, please.

 Some days, I set fire to my kitchen. Really.

I read bread.  I researched bread.  I examined methods and means.  I mixed and kneaded, prodded, and peeked at sleeping forms nestled warmly beneath tea towels.

When my pregnant tummy extended further than my arms could comfortably reach, I talked my husband into kneading.  The promise of enlarged biceps was his temptation.  I baked on.

Some days, I made croutons with dry impostors.  Some days, the breads would rise quickly having a will of their own till exhausted they would sink with a gasp that made my kitchen smell like a brewery. Too often, I angrily tossed compacted parcels of honey and wheat into the trash can—an unceremonious burial.  But I baked on.

I baked on because of that periodic glorious batch that teased me with promise.  I persevered because of the heady aroma that filled every nook and cranny of the house and sneaked out windows to breathe the secret to the neighbors:  A baker lives here who’s discovered the magic. 

Now many years since my first tentative foray into the world of homemade bread, I have mastered the art.  Well, almost.  I have captured the magic that consistently allows me to grace my table with hearty steaming loaves.  I’ve learned the “feel” of the dough.  I can make the subtle adaptations to humidity and temperature that insure success.  I carefully monitor the rising and resting with knowing eyes. But that’s not really the magic. 

 The magic is in the not giving up.  It’s in trying again and again because of the possibilities.  It’s in learning from failure the surer incremental path to success. 

The magic in baking bread, as in all of life, is in not quitting.  And so, I bake on.