I’m not feeling well today, so I’m taking it easy by doing laundry and baking bread before I go to work. The laundry has to be done. The bread…read on.
The last couple of days I’ve felt like baking bread. Before you get any ideas that I’m some kind of uber-housewife extraordinaire, I’m not. For me, this is a weird urge, the kind that sends people into triathalon training or up Everest. But baking bread is a family tradition. My mother and my aunt both make fabulous bread. They’re also out-of-this-world cooks. My aunt reads cookbooks like I read fiction and my mother…my mother cooks like a jazz artist. One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mother showing me how to drop of loaf of homemade bread into an empty store-bought bread bag, then suck all the air out to keep the homemade bread as fresh as possible. I thought she was so COOL for knowing this. I still think she’s cool.
Today I made bread, using the basic yeasted bread recipe from the Tassajara Bread Book. I bought the bread book and a book of poetry on Monday. Bread, poetry, and music seem to be recurring themes in my life right now; I’m slowly learning to just go with these things, see them as grist for the mill, and absorb whatever energy the universe is sending me.
In that spirit, I made bread. Nothing fancy, just a basic whole wheat. The fruits (or loaves) of my labor:
Time to go to work. Then it will be time to write. The rhythms of life, such as they are.