I tried making bread once before. The loaf was rock hard and could have been used as a weapon. But you need to keep trying, right? I promised myself that I would make bread again sometime. Well, that was in 1974.
Since then, I can’t say my family members and I have suffered. We have made it through life just fine with store-purchased bread. Oh, I have turned to Rhodes rolls on Sundays, and I’ve made sweet breads on occasion, but yes, we’ve been fine without made from scratch homemade bread on the table. Still . . . I hadn’t done what I’d been telling myself for years I would do.
So today, when my mother told me she was going to bake some bread, I said, “It’s a good day to bake bread. Maybe I will too!” I got the recipe from her (again) and pulled out the flour. Surely I could do what she, at ninety-five, seems to be able to pull off.
To make a long story short, this time I was careful not to kill the yeast, and two or three hours later I pulled out four loaves of gloriously golden bread. Okay they were a little lumpy looking, and my kitchen looked like a land mine had gone off, but there they were on my counter: real loaves of real, down-to- earth, staff of life bread. I cut off an uneven slice and took a bite. It actually tasted like real, down-to-earth, staff of life bread.
Will I make bread again? Maybe. For now I’m just going to enjoy the moment and at long last bask in this sweet, melted buttery feeling of success.