Cast Your Bread

Once upon a time, I was nervous about bread.

That was, mind you, before I actually made bread. Before I ever baked my own bread, I felt like it was a looming, fierce mountain that I needed to climb. I'd taste an amazing bread and feel simultaneously thrilled and furious. Thrilled about the sheer bliss of consuming this perfect cloud, and simply furious that, well, I hadn't made it myself. And, as with all of my true goals, lofty or not, I proceeded to drive myself mad as I thought more and more about actually doing it. And I was right. I was driving myself crazy, putting it off.

Suddenly, when I least expected it, I found myself sprinting through the aisles of the grocery store (this was Kroger, in Ohio) scooping up ingredients. Yeast. My first yeast! Before I knew it, I was up to my elbows in flour and delicious bread muck, happily kneading away. Immediately, my mind rocketed back in time, as I remembered where this all began. Amelia Bedelia. You know, those quirky books with that black-and-white clad character who never slowed down, ever. Everything she did was funny because her actions were all results of misunderstandings.

There's this one book in the series in which she bakes bread, and, reading it, I was in bliss. I don't remember thinking it was funny, exactly, because I was nervous for her. It simply wasn't funny that the bread might not work out! I was rooting for her. I wanted that bread to turn out! It just had to! I adored those bread-making words and the way they rolled around in my mouth. Knead, punch, rise, stir, smooth, elastic, turn, double. I had never punched anyone or anything in my life, nor had I wanted to, but I was giddy with the prospect of making a food that one could punch. Being so utterly intimate with a food as to knead, twist, shape it, and, er, punch it -- well, that was fascinating.

Later, I took polaroids of my first bread, which still live in that purpled-spined cookbook that I cooked my way through during college. Recently I looked back at those bread pictures, and remembered that moment when I first tasted my first loaf. I felt like an explorer who had just imbedded a flag on top of the mountain. It was world-changing. It redefined the way I viewed food, and it explained the intense alchemy, the sheer science, that goes into building everything around us. It's the simplest thing, bread. It's, well, the staff of life and all, and when you make it and eat it, it's like swallowing history.

Honestly, it's not even necessary at this point to tell you that one of my very favorite things on earth is bread. Think about it, if you haven't yet done so. Toast! A world of its own! Sandwiches. Baguettes. Pita. English muffins. Foccacia. Bagels. Croissants. Rye. Pumpernickel. Sourdough. Ciabatta. Buns. Rolls. Challah. Biscuits. Monkey bread! You get the idea. So many categories under this one name, bread.

I remember all the breads I've ever eaten. All the memories are lined up in my head, like the solid spines of books on shelves. All the same, but all different. There was my first real French baguette in Paris, and my first taste of the perfect ciabatta at Stonehouse Bread in northern Michigan. There was the healing, incredible toast that my mom has always made me when I'm sick, and the burnt English muffins that my dad has always eaten on weekend afternoons when he gets home from work, topped with butter and peanut butter, which is simply brilliant. You must try it right away if you haven't; this guy is truly onto something. It reminds me of the amazing egg sandwich at a local coffeehouse here in Chicago, where they spread butter on the bagel before adding the scrambled egg and cheese. Whew, it is amazing.

I remember the bagel shop where I worked in high school, and how I wished desperately that I could be the baker, not just the sandwich-maker. My favorite part of the job was when the oven opened and the bagels came out; the aroma would sail around that shop like some sort of elated angel. We'd slide the bagels off their parchment paper and into the wire bins, catching delicious steam in our eyes and noses, and we'd half-joke about eating the whole tray, just the three of us. Three teenage girls, a bin of hot bagels, and a hot, hot love affair that had nothing to do with boys.

There was the first time my family discovered Texas toast (seriously, what's not to love about a family that gets insanely happy about extra-wide bread slices?), and there was all the french toast that my parents would make for my brother and me, always perfect and delicious because they just wove magic into every single thing they did for us (and they still do weave that magic).

I remember the cinnamon-raisin toast that I'd eat for breakfast before getting on the school bus; I was mesmerized by the cinnamon swirls, circling around until they reached the center, which was where the very best bite was. I always imagined the bread factory where it was made, with tall machines, and rooms filled with cinnamon smells. I longed to see the way the swirls were shaped by those machines, and I wanted so badly to know how every single loaf could end up having the exact same swirls and identically-random raisin pattern. If I burned my toast accidentally, my dad would always eat it for me, and I've always felt so lucky to have that black-toast safety net. I remember the strange, urgent smell of singed raisins, too -- the ones that fell out of the bread while it was toasting.

There was the little rye bread that my mom would serve sometimes, and I would eat it delicately, pretending I was the doll in a dollhouse, nibbling on tiny food, sitting in my tiny chair in my tiny kitchen. Recently, I walked past the baby-loaf rye bread factory here in Chicago, and I felt like I should be ushered in by gracious arms and allowed to have a special tour, all just because I have memories of those tiny loaves. Memories are perfect tickets for tours, right?

There are all the sandwiches, too. Do you think about your favorite sandwich? Do you know which one it would be? Often, when I am waiting around for something or other, I'll try to think of my favorite one, and I can never quite decide. But, no matter what, the ones that come out on top are always the ones with the very best bread, the most luxurious and perfect vessel for transporting all the items into your mouth. My friend Susan, one of her very favorite foods is a sandwich, and, see? Why wouldn't I love her? Sandwich lovers are smart. They know that it's little things that matter the most; that it's all the little things that add up to make something amazing. Needless to say, I think of her every time I eat a sandwich.

Oh! And another amazing thing. It's what Matthew and I have coined "road sandwiches," and it's, um, you guessed it, the stack of sandwiches that I build the morning that we leave for a trip. Usually, there's turkey for me, and ham for him, plus maybe some hummus and cucumber ones for both of us. They are insanely simple sandwiches, just meat and mustard and black pepper, but they are magical. Maybe it's the whir of the ferocious city that we're happily leaving behind, or the quiet comfort of each other, or the ecstasy associated with vacationing mode, or maybe, well, maybe it's just the depth and comfort of the bread.

So, back to that first loaf that I made twelve years ago. I recently decided to try and replicate it, and I based the recipe on a funny little recipe that I pulled out of a mini-cookbook that comes in the mail. I think that it's perhaps an example recipe from a mail-order cookbook series? Anyway, I loved it because it's called Mom's Bread, and, since that first go at it, I've made it three or four times, and it's good. There are some completely odd things about this recipe (you'll see what I mean), and I've rearranged a few parts of it to make it even wackier, but I think you'll be entertained at the very least. If you're into grainy sorts of voluptuous, earthy bread, then this is the loaf for you. It's like cereal, sort of. In bread form. It sounds involved and a little intimidating, but it's really not so much of a hassle. As with all bread, you've gotta stick around with it for part of the day to keep it company, so make sure you have the time before you begin.

a new variation on
Mom's Bread
Adapted from an unknown source. Thank you, mystery inventor!
Dedicated to my mom, because it contains her favorite cereal.

1/2 c bulghur
2 1/2 c AP flour
1 pkg yeast
1 1/4 c milk
1/4 c honey
1/4 c butter
1 egg
1 3/4 c whole wheat flour
1/2 c oats
1/2 c crushed Total cereal
1/2 c wheat bran or wheat germ
1 egg white

Place bulghur into a small bowl. Add boiling water to cover. Let stand 15 minutes and drain it well. In a big bowl, combine two cups of the AP flour and the yeast; set aside. In a medium-ish saucepan, heat and stir the milk, honey, butter, and 1 t salt just until warm (aim for about 125 degrees F, or until butter almost melts). Add milk mixture to flour mixture. Add egg. Beat on low to medium speed for 30 seconds, scraping down sides of bowl. Beat on high for 3 minutes. Using a wooden spoon, stir in the bulghur, remaining AP flour, 1 C of the whole wheat flour, oats, the 1/2 cup of Total, and the wheat bran.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured counter.
Knead in just enough of the remaining whole wheat flour to make a moderately stiff dough **if you're like me, you'll be a little paranoid, calling out to yourself (or rather, calling out to the dough): "Is it moderately stiff yet? Is THIS stiff? Are you stiff? What does moderately stiff even mean? Is this too stiff? Is it stiff enough? Are you done? Now? Now? How's this??"** that is smooth and elastic. Aim for 6-8 minutes of kneading. Shape into a ball.
Place in a greased bowl (opt for glass or ceramic here), turning once to grease the dough. Cover. Let rise in a warm place until double in size (about 1 hour). Punch it down! Pretend you're Amelia Bedelia!
Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface; divide in half. Cover; let rest 10 minutes. Wash some dishes, or pace around the kitchen, staring at it. Grease two bread pans. Shape dough into two loaves, and put 'em in the pans. Combine egg white and 1 T water; brush on the top of both loaves. Sprinkle with crushed cereal. Turn on the oven to 375 F. Cover. Let rise on top of the stove for about 30 minutes, or until doubled.
Bake about 30 minutes or until loaves sound hollow when tapped.
If the tops start to get too dark, tent with foil. Remove from pans, let cool on wire rack. Sit back and inhale all the intoxicating smells that you've just created. You did it! Now go eat that bread and make some blueprints for your new bakery.