My Hand is in The Batter

That day temperatures were climbing higher and higher. I was thinking of filling the kids’ old pool and sticking my feet in…or readying some dough to bake bread. After all it was the right day for either. I could freeze my toes or create a tasty morsel. I went for the latter.

The humidity would raise the dough, making it oven ready in a blink. In minutes, I could be smearing crusty bread with butter and favorite orange marmalade. And it really didn’t take much: a few simple foodstuffs—some yeast, flour, water, butter, an egg and pinch of salt. As well as some patience and a little time.

Getting hungry?

Such fine bakery can satisfy one’s tummy or be shared with someone … family, a friend, a brand-new neighbor who moved in across the street. Sharing bread can improve and enhance a relationship. There is also an active connection, a kind of personal relationship in the making of bread to a finished product. Using some imagination, I could visualize myself as those simple ingredients. Yielding to the process of formation; becoming a wedge of dough, soft and malleable.

This process was welcomed. My normally upbeat disposition had taken a turn into a dark forest. To trails snarled with vines and briars, causing an edginess in my thought and words. Worries were piling, fingers nervously tapped the table. Yes, even counselors have their moments.

Time to try something new. I looked about the kitchen and eyed a recently purchased bag of flour. Nothing exciting here…a boring label on a tasteless product. I slumped in the kitchen chair and rubbed my cheek, realizing the ache in my heart might be comforted by such plain food.

I was ready to take on the challenge.

The table was piled with cookbooks. I chose one and thumbed through. Aha! A tasty recipe shouted at me. Hoisting a full apron over my head, I grabbed several bowls, measuring cups and spoons. Measuring out the flour, it went into one of the bowls with some aside for later … for countertop, hands and of course, my face.

The yeast, a kind of fungus, came next. It is a fungus that you no longer have to find in the field like the people of ancient times. Now it can be easily found on the grocery self. My personal preference is the dry form in the baking section. Yeast is an absolute in making a raised bread. Without it the dough would result in a hard cracker.

Now for some fun chemistry. In another small bowl, I combined the required amount of yeast along with warm water and a sprinkle of sugar. It is set in a warm place. In moments a magically touch of science stepped in, enlivening the mixture. I bent over the bowl watching a frothy substance pillow the bowl, giving off an earthy scent. So exciting to watch.

Now mixed into the large bowl with the flour goes the yeast and all the rest of the ingredients. Ugh. The batter was not pleasing to look at, resembling a grayish sludge. Depressing. Like I had felt this morning. But this step was vital to creating something wonderful.

Flouring my hands, I gathered the sloppy mess into a rounded form and placed it on the floured countertop. I began the step of kneading. More of the reserved flour covered my hands as I pushed and eased the lumpy shape with my palms; back and forth, over and under. Worries eased as the dough was pressed down and beaten. No longer an amorphous mess, the dough had molded into a ball; smooth and silky. A calm settled over me, I realized my demeanor was changing as well.

I placed the dough into an oiled bowl, making sure it had enough room for the next step. Proofing. Covering the bowl with a towel it was set in a warm place to double in size. Now to wait. Patience needed! I kept lifting the towel and hoping … maybe now. I chuckled, noting how difficult it was to wait for this bread, how difficult it is to wait for anything.

The dough was moved to the next step, almost the grand finale. Readying baking pans, I shaped the risen dough into loaves and set them to rise. Again. But in a little while, the loaves were brushed with egg wash and put into the oven. The chemistry of warmth was seen in minutes as the dough raised in form and beauty into crispy browned loaves. A delightful sweet-smelling essence filled the kitchen. Pouring a cup of tea, I gazed on the baking loaves in the stove window; appreciating their yielding to become a heartening and life-giving product. And my meager hands had played a part in it all.

The bell of the oven timer was chiming. The bread was baked! With care, the pans were turned, the fresh bread gently set aside to cool.

I stood back and admired their baked goodness. Excited, like a child awaiting hot cocoa and pancakes on Christmas morn, I broke off a piece. Anticipation hovered as I smoothed on butter and relished that first bite. Slicing a thicker piece, I leaned back and smiled.

For now, all was right with the world.

…and that’s how I live it.