Breaking Bread Not News

The thrift store lured me in. The siren call of my book addiction slammed the brakes on and turned the wheel. It's fun even if I leave with an empty basket. A look-see, just in case there is something I'm missing.

I saw an astonishing thing this trip. A long shelf packed with bread machines. Some years ago, everyone wanted one. Had to have one. They weren't cheap.

Bread is a passion for me. There is a sensual pleasure in making it that touches all the layers inside. If a meal includes a warm free-form loaf of bread, the experience and memory is a good one.

I have recently returned to making it after a couple years off. We forgot how satisfying it is. How it compliments even the simplest meal. We had homemade chicken soup with crusty hot bread the other night. Each of us felt nurtured and nourished by this homely combination. It was plain, but satisfying.

My sourdough starter is about fifteen years old. Before going to bed I put a dab of starter in a glass bowl with water and flour. The sponge bubbles and gurgles all night working, eating, and stretching the gluten. In the morning, I add salt and enough flour to gather a ball together. In the bowl, I knead it a few times to smooth it and let it rest till the afternoon, covered. It gets punched down and shaped into a baguette or rolls. By supper time, it is ready to bake in a hot oven.

I dream of a wood fired brick oven in the back yard, but they are quite the investment. Those who have one are fortunate in my opinion.

Lord help the person who cuts my hot crusty loaf. Breaking it open is the only way. Rough. Rustic. Sensuous bread. And curses on the poverty stricken person who would contaminate it with merely margarine. Horrors. Butter is the true companion ~ a love match.

If the previous owners of all those sad, washed up, unwanted bread machines only knew the joy and ease with which familial happiness could be had.