Yesterday, I made bread. White bread, to be precise. I even followed the recipe, almost precisely, which is pretty good for me. I forgot to add the salt, but that's okay. We already finished one loaf.
I thought about putting up the Christmas tree yesterday morning, but chose to bake bread and make carrot and leek soup for lunch instead. I had a yen for freshly baked white bread for the past two days. And, since I wasn't going to find what I wanted in the local grocery stores or bakeries, I might as well knead one to fulfill my need. Yuk, yuk.
I don't make bread much anymore. Not that I was ever a bread baker. I just like pounding the dough. Okay, the kneading. Knead, knead. Pound. Pound, Knead.
Easy pounding. Not like the first time I made bread many decades ago. Imagine me, a 20-year-old college girl living in a second-floor apartment in San Francisco's Richmond district. It's late in the evening. Because I'm either stressed or bored, or both, with my studies, I am making bread on the flimsy kitchen counter. Knead, knead, Pow! Pound. Pound. Pow! Pound Pound. Knead, pound, knead. My roommates say, "Gee, Sue take it easy."
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. There is an angry rap at our front door. It is our downstairs neighbor. He is not very happy with the loud, continuous thuds keeping him awake. Poor guy.
I learned my lesson: Pound bread dough quietly and kindly.
By the way, the Christmas tree just might go up today.