I started the weekend by baking bread. Sure I have done banana bread, but that is a different type, requiring no time or effort for the actual creation. After seeing an article by a food editor who took her first shot at bread, and reading about how many 2020 shut-ins emptied the grocery shelves of bread-making staples, it was a necessary project.
Like Charlton Heston as Moses, I was compelled to do it.
At least I had some of the essentials, such as all-purpose or AP flour, salt, running water and nearly all the cooking hardware. The grocery store provided yeast, and the store I always call the “Three Bs” (Bed, Bath & Beyond) yielded a big dutch oven and a scale. Now that I have a dutch oven I can put inside another oven and heat to 450 degrees to bake bread, I figure I can also make chili for a family of ten (or bag nine servings for leftovers). It’s an investment I can will to charity when I die.
First thing I did was review a video of a no-knead recipe. Taking out the most complicated part of bread dough seemed a good idea for my first try, because under- or over- handling can result in disaster. It was then I found out a scale wasn’t necessary because the recipe is known to be very forgiving. Still, it’s good to have once I venture into more complex recipes in which measuring to the gram is a must, like for cloud bread (seems easy, but I blew three attempts).
I then timed out my adventure. Since I had to let the dough rise for twelve hours or more, I started the night before, measuring flour, salt, yeast and water, then plunging my ultra-clean hands into the handy bowl and swishing the combination around. Turns out I needed more water, which I parceled out in little splashes until I had a concoction somewhere between glue and wet cement. Into the bowl it went, with a covering of plastic wrap.
Amazingly, I slept well overnight.
Next day I approached the bowl, and there was a beautiful round mass of risen perfection. It clung to the bowl, drooping sideways while tendrils hung on for dear life. I encouraged it onto a floured counter and folded it onto itself before letting it sit again.
Finally I placed my humongous dutch oven in. . . .what I guess is my American oven, and heated it to 450 degrees. When it was ready and I opened the door, the heat was intense. Quickly I fetched the bowl and attempted again to turn out the dough. It stuck to my hand like mud on a Sunday dress, but I asserted my authority and plopped it into the center of the dutch oven. As I suspected, my new cooking device was larger than called for, but it was a choice between going one size smaller or one size bigger, and believe me I know better than to go down a size.
Thirty minutes later, as I opened the oven door and took the cover off, I had a brown and round loaf of bread looking up at me. Now came a problem: it looked ready, but the recipe called for another 15 minutes uncovered. I went for ten, took it out and was glad I did. The top was deep brown, just short of black. So onto the burner it went, and the bread finally went to the cooling rack, with not a hint of a singe.
Anxiously I took a cooling slice and spread butter on it, then split the remainder in half and bagged them for later. The flavor was simple, warm and inviting. Plans for sandwiches or chili swam in my head.
I had done it. I had baked bread.
Next time it’ll be wheat, or kneaded. It’s something I’m compelled to do.
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