Word Perv

Friday evening, at 5:30pm I rolled up my sleeves and read over the recipe for the second time. I’ve never made bread from scratch before, so this was a new endeavor. I was about to embark on making Pumpkin Ale Beer Bread, a recipe I’d been drooling over for a week.

Scrunching up my forehead, I picked up my phone and dialed my parents’ number. “Mom,” I said, “I’m baking bread…” and then continued with my question. I would call her three times before the night was over, each time with a different baking question. I was pretty sure I knew the answer each time, but my mom loves to bake and makes the best homemade bread from scratch, and I know she also appreciates when I call her with these types of questions. So being the good daughter that I am, I called her to confirm my thoughts.

Seven hours later – yes, it took a total of seven hours to make this bread – all that rising and kneading and rising again and punching it back down and separating it into two balls of dough – all of that takes time.

At 12:30am I pulled out the second round of bread and gazed fondly at it. I was so impressed with it I of course took pictures.

It was a piece of art, this bread. Browned nicely on the outside, dense on the inside (beer bread tends to be heavier), and it had filled my  house with the delicious scent of yeasty bread as it baked. I tore off a piece and popped it into my mouth…and was sorely disappointed. I dedicated seven hours on a Friday night to making very pretty but incredibly bland bread.

The next morning I toasted two pieces and smeared them with peanut butter. It wasn’t any more flavorful than it had been the night before,but the peanut butter definitely  helped make it palatable. I picked up the phone and dialed, “Mom,” I said slowly, “I certainly do appreciate it when you bake bread for me…”