I have been using bread as my counsellor for 6 months now. My human counsellor told me to.
I started making bread last year, because I wanted the crunchy crusts and open bubbles of the premium loaves in the supermarket, without the premium price tag. I started making bread because, as usual, I wanted to feel in control of something.
Making the first loaf was a bit of a thrill. It was an exercise in patience and expectation. I waited nervously while it sat in the cupboard with all the hot water pipes next to it, deciding whether or not to grow, how delicate to become, how much of a ‘success’. I questioned it constantly. Is that kneaded enough? Is it risen enough? Is that enough of a smooth ball? Is it risen enough again? Is that enough flour? Is that enough steam? Is that brown enough? When it emerged from the oven, the answers came back inconclusive. It was heavy as a brick and split wide open at the top. There was one big hole in the middle and no bubbles anywhere else. It was bad, as loaves of bread go, but I was proud that I had made this thing exist at all. The internet tells you to be patient, that it will take time to learn what your dough likes, and for your starter to mature. I heeded this advice, I thought: “pretty good for the first try.”
A year later, I can make a good loaf of bread quite reliably. I don’t ask too many questions. Combine flour and water first. Add the starter and salt a bit later. Knead for half an hour, or until you can see light through the stretched dough. Rest and fold, rest and fold over three or four hours, until you see translucent bubbles and the dough has a jelly-like jiggle. Shape on the counter. Shape into a basket. Leave overnight. Turn out and score the top. Bake.
This weekend, I took my attention off the clock. I tried a new basket and the kitchen was hotter than normal. The bread rose like crazy overnight, standing out of the basket like a balloon. I got excited. I tried to turn it out. It got stuck. It collapsed before it made it to the oven, looking a bit like one of those giant water balloons that is too heavy to support its own weight. I laughed it off, we baked it anyway. It didn’t end up looking pretty. It tasted great. I will make better loaves again.
I started making bread because I wanted control over something. What the bread has taught me – like my human counsellor suggested – is that control is not always the answer. You do your best, you follow the recipe, you take care as much as possible, but you are not in control. It’s okay to give yourself time, to think: “pretty good for the first try.” Bubbles come, big or small, crusts break open or stay where they are, or fall in on themselves. Life happens, life surprises you, life comes back inconclusive. You carry on anyway. You eat what you can. You learn your lessons with each loaf and in seven days you try again.
The bread doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to get you through the week.