Been baking a lot of bread lately. I do this when there’s snow on the ground, or in the forecast, or within the realm of seasonal possibility.
In other words, it’s how I pass the winter. Summer, autumn and spring I buy bread, but in the winter I’m a bread-bakin’ fool. As opposed to the regular kind of fool (which I also am; see above re: Summer, autumn and spring).
I guess it’s my version of the panic response that sends people to the store for French toast ingredients — milk, eggs, bread — every time the weather loonies on TV bring up the possibility of more than an half-inch of winter precipitation. I run to the store too, except I go for flour and yeast.
So, anyway, lately there has been a lot of loafing around at my house. Bread loafing.
Because I am a little out of practice — it’s been at least a year since I baked — I started with trying to make some good old plain white bread.
When it’s right, you can’t beat a loaf of homemade white bread still warm from the oven. It brings back memories of Grandma cutting you a big slice of freshly baked bread and spreading it thickly with butter and strawberry jam and handing it to you with a peck on the cheek and a pat on the head. Which is weird, because my grandmother never did any of those things. As long as I knew her, she bought her bread from the bread man or at the grocery store.
Well, my bread started out promisingly enough, I guess, but something happened along the way. It never did rise properly and when I baked it, it came out … well, let’s just say that one of the loaves is presently holding up the sofa where the leg broke off.