It must have been to eat the bread
day 19: 100 days
Homemade bread makes me cry. Every time. I wish it didn’t, it’s a little embarrassing, but the smell of it in a house leaves me speechless and forgetting who I am or what I was doing. I will stand in a room with the scent of fresh bread and think, “Why am I here, now, in this room? What was I doing?” And the only answer given is “it must be to stop and eat this bread.” Unfortunately, I am not a good baker. Or maybe fortunately, because that would mean I’d sit around crying all the time, holding loaves up to my nose, and refusing to leave my kitchen lest someone eat all “my bread.” Bread makes me possessive and selfish, and leaves me a little feral and without willpower. I have tried to become a better baker, but I am an impatient person and prone to missing, or more likely, straight-up ignoring the small, important details of a good recipe — like proof time, for instance. Good bread takes time. Maybe that’s why it makes me emotional; it takes time and forethought to become what it is, and those two things together, mixed with flour and yeast, feel special. My little sister is an amazing baker. And when we visit, she knows we’ve been living in unthinkable homemade bread scarcity, so she immediately makes rolls for us with flaky sea salt on top. She puts them in a big basket on the table, and my kids and Christopher all sit around eating one after the other with looks of ecstasy on their faces, and small moans escaping their mouths in between bitefuls. Once she made a sourdough loaf that, according to her, didn’t turn out. And truly, it wasn’t all the way cooked, but we didn’t care. The flavor was miraculous. I still remember it. We fought over the crust and tore off big soft strips from inside the loaf, working our way around the raw bits, our hearts applauding her as we scolded each other for taking too much, “leave some for the rest of us!” But she lives 1,500 miles away. So when our friends had us over for dinner last night, and walking in, I could smell yeast in the air, my heart started to beat faster. They were MAKING the hamburger buns, a King Arthur recipe, from SCRATCH. Insanity, right? That’s what we non-bakers think anyway. I peeked over and saw them sitting on the warm shelf proofing. I wondered if I should just stand there and wait for “my bread” to be ready. A small part of me was afraid there wouldn’t be enough, even though they assured me they had made a double batch. I counted five hungry children running around, and this made me edge a little closer, so I’d be the first in line. Why wasn’t there a line? There should be a line! Because I was definitely there first. When I got closer, I caught myself marveling at how absolutely perfect and uniform in shape they were. How did he do that? He must have weighed them individually. The patience!
When they went in the oven, forget about it, the house smelled like heaven. Heaven! They were so good that it was all we could talk about at dinner. I went silent when I took my first bite, in my head I was thinking “don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.” My second thought was, “How many of these can I have and still be considered a respectable adult?” And when the kids asked what was for dessert, Chris offered, “How about we eat hamburger buns with butter and honey!” We had ice cream with homemade wild black raspberry sauce instead (also incredible), but we found ourselves talking afterwards about making ice cream sandwiches WITH the buns. Everyone was in it together, imagining all of the possible ways we could excuse ourselves to eat more of that bread. Later, when I walked into the dining room, someone (definitely a child who did not know what they were doing) had left an entire bun on the table. It was just lying there, torn in half. Not even on a plate! I don’t know what they were thinking. I mean, how could they do that? How could they just leave it there? I strode past it three times, as if I were looking for something in the room. I picked up a napkin off the table as if I was perhaps helping to clear the table, before stopping, absolutely possessed, and taking three, yup, three, slow, delighted bites. I shamelessly stood there and took multiple bites of some unknown child’s abandoned bun. I don’t know why I went into the living room in the first place. I still can’t remember. I think it must have been to eat the bread.
