Bread Making

By Grace Discher

Age 17

I did not always love making bread. I confess that in the beginning, I rather detested the task. This feeling can probably be accounted for by the products of my labors, which were flat, rather hard lumps, familiarly known as “rocks,” politely referred to as “loaves.” This result does not promote enthusiasm.

Through the perseverant insistence of my mother and a good deal of practice, I can now turn out a respectable loaf of bread. I shall now explain why I love the process.

I am one of those leisurely, methodical people who take great delight in doing certain tasks in a certain way, so as to make my own “art,” it might be called, out of it, and deriving much nonsensical pleasure from the “just-so” accomplishing thereof.

It gives me enormous pleasure to slowly and methodically empty tablespoon by tablespoon of flour into the gooey mass of assorted ingredients, until the proper consistency is reached. (An unusual pleasure, I’ll grant you, but a factual one, nevertheless.) At which point I form my loaves, taking care to cut off the ends to form cinnamon buns for the “sweet teeth” in the house.

I then place them in the pre-heated oven, wait with infantile patience, and when the appointed time arrives, I sniff the matchless scent of fresh baked bread with the utmost delight! Whereupon it necessarily follows that I eat of the “fruit of my labors,” and pass into the seventh heaven of delight.

This is a faithful narrative of my trials and tribulations, my hates and loves, in regards to the subject of this discourse – the making of the humble loaf.