zen and bread

People love making bread these days, and so do I. These are the reasons why.

The smell is what strikes me first as I peel open the package, revealing the creamy cube within. The smell of life itself, a city block filled with billions of fresh yeast cells, all tucked up and asleep. I gently crumble the yeast into the bowl, the texture strangely alive beneath my fingers. For a moment there I feel like a god, seeding my mixing bowl with life ready to awake at the first touch of water. It was one of the first experiments I remember in biology class, to add a bit of yeast to sugary water. We would then look into the microscope and see the little cells race back and forth like tiny speedboats, now and then splitting in two to go their separate ways. I let the water run until it feels comfortably lukewarm against my fingertips. Too warm and my tiny minions will die, scalded in a massacre of epic proportions, so I always err on the side of cold. I don’t mind if the yeast takes a bit waking up, I love the slow mornings myself so I can understand them. I pour the water into the bowl and slowly start to stir. The yeast yawns awake and dissolves, turning the water rich and creamy as each little cell swim their separate ways in search of food.

I add the oil next, a generous dollop of cold-pressed rapeseed oil. It smells like nuts and summer, a brilliant golden yellow that forms little puddles all over the surface of the yeasty lake. In the summer I would ride the bus past the fields where it grow, mile upon mile of brilliant gold, all waiting to be harvested come autumn. Now it ends up in my bread, a reminder of the warmer seasons. The smell is divine, so I add a bit of salt for flavor and texture. For a moment there I hesitate, do I want some grated carrots in there perhaps? Or a bit of apple or olives? In the end I decide that today my bread will be pure, just the perfect symphony of flour, water, yeast and oil. By now the yeast is awake and hungry, so I open the pantry and survey the flours.

The bag of rågsikt is what speaks to me this morning, the perfect mixture of 60% finely sifted wheat, and 40% equally finely sifted rye. It is an all purpose athlete combining the speed and rising power of the wheat with the taste and strength of the rye. I pour a generous helping into my bowl and start to stir. My peaceful lake of yeast has now turned into a soggy brownish marshland, a lumpy horrible mess that looks as if someone threw up their morning gruel into the bowl. I stir and add more flour until the dough has become so thick that I can stir harder without splashing it everywhere. This is a crucial moment; I cradle the bowl like a baby on my arm and put some effort into stirring it. The lumps slowly get torn apart as flour and water decide to get along, aided by the slick splashes of oil. I stir and I stir, until the dough is soft and uniform. I start adding flour by the handful as I continue to stir until the dough decides that it likes being in one piece and not sticking to the bowl anymore. Unification has been achieved. Houston, we have dough.

Wheat is fickle flour and needs a gentle touch to come out right, so I cover the bowl with a towel and go to brush my teeth. It is still early and Aleph is tucked up in bed. The apartment is so very quiet and I smile at the heart he has drawn for me in toothpaste on the bathroom mirror. It takes about fifteen minutes for me to freshen up, which is just what the flour needs to become more amiable. If I hadn’t given it that extra bit of time it would have been sticky and hard to work with, but if I allow it the time to adjust and absorb, it becomes a much nicer friend for the rest of the baking experience. Much like a certain someone still curled up in the bedroom.

I dust the countertop with flour and dig my fingers into the dough as I scoop it out. I am generous with the flour, adding more and more as I knead, always keeping one step ahead of the sticky. This is the hardest part of baking bread, to decide when the dough is just perfect. It flexes as I knead it, a warm and alive little entity, with flour-dusted skin and a bellyful of hardworking yeast. I massage and press my fingers into its flesh, relishing the elastic texture. One can never knead bread too much so in the end it is my fingers and hands that give out, exhausted by the rough massage. The dough now lies purring on the countertop, kitten-warm and soft. I pet it, and reach for the knife.

One piece of dough becomes two, then four, then eight, then sixteen, breeding like rabbits in springtime under my blade. I roll each piece between my palms, warm like the little baby rats I used to have curled up in my hand. I arrange them on the baking tray, and then cover them with the towel once more. They need their rest now, the poor little things, and I know that in our kitchen they prefer to get their sleep on top of the stove. Now that the oven is turned on, the surface becomes comfortably warm, and beneath the towel the yeast can work undisturbed.

Once more I abandon the kitchen, meandering over to the computer as I wait. I flip through news and journals, keeping an eye on the timer. I know that in general, thirty minutes will be enough to get a rise out of my bread, but as always it depends on weather and mood. The yawn comes unbidden and the couch tempts me from the corner, but I know that to lay down there is to invite sleep and then the dough might over-rise and collapse. So, I tough it out as the minutes creep past, denying immediate snoozing gratification in exchange for the future happiness of warm fluffy bread.

The towel is all bumpy with growth as I return to the kitchen, and when I lift it, the revealed buns look perky and round. I gently poke one of them, satisfied with the soft firmness. Well-risen bread is like a woman’s breast, soft, yet firm, and if you poke it, it flexes back. I open the oven and very carefully slide the baking tray inside, right in the middle. Never make any quick movements around risen bread. An open window or a slammed door might cause them to collapse if you’re unlucky; the best way to treat them is as if they were a trayful of baby bunnies that had just fallen asleep. Now it is time to wait again, so I decide to wash up and clear up the countertop. The buns will only be in the oven for about fifteen minutes, so I don’t have much time to do anything else, and there is a certain satisfaction in a clean kitchen. Once fifteen minutes or so have passed I very carefully open the oven and tap a bun with a kitchen knife. It sounds dry and hollow so I decide that it is probably ready and pull the tray out.

With a quick move I slide the buns over to the oven grate I have put on the countertop to let them cool without moisture collecting underneath. No mold to be for my buns, just crispy golden crust. The smell of freshly baked bread has filled the entire kitchen by now, and I hum a little to myself as I put on a pot of tea. This is the perfect time to sneak into the bedroom and wake up sleeping beauty. Then we can break our fast with tea and fresh bread, still so warm that the cheese hangs limply from the split buns, a plateful of happy pac-men sticking out their tongues at us. Perhaps we’ll watch a movie to entertain them as we eat.

Lazy Sunday mornings are the best.