Monday, December 01, 2014

Destiny ...

I had enough milk.

Whether or not I had enough milk was to determine whether or not I baked bread today.

I had enough milk. With a bit to spare.

So I made bread, the bread my Great Aunt Anne taught me to bake so many years ago. I was 8 then. Today, I am teetering on the fulcrum of my 40s.

It's second nature to me, this bread. I breeze through making it and shaping it.

The waiting truly is the hardest part.

But I waited for the dough to rise. And when it didn't look risen quite enough, I waited a little longer.

And then I fired up the oven and later, out came two lovely loaves, with more depth the the crust than the loaves I baked the other day. So I took a picture.

And then I waited for it to cool and then I cut a slice and the crust was indeed lovely. So I took a picture.

And then I set thin slices of butter on it to soften, because it was still warm. And then I smeard the butter into a mostly even layer and marveled at the chewy texture of the crust. These might be the best loaves I've ever baked.

And then I cut another slice – OK, two slices – and put them in the toaster and stood by, waiting for them to take on just the right amount of color, and then I set more thin slices of butter on them and let them mostly melt and I had already taken the two other pictures so I took a picture.


The happiest incarnation of bread is toast.

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