Making Bread

It had been a long day.  A really, really long day.  She tiredly hung her fashion-forward purse on its hook and shrugged out of her worn jean jacket – the only in-between outerwear she owned – and, with a wrinkle of her nose (the only acknowledgment that the jacket was the antithesis of fashion-forward) hung it over the purse.

“No, that’s wrong,” she said aloud.  She removed the jacket with one hand and the purse with the other, then put the jacket on the hook and put the purse over it.  “Much better.”

She kicked off her fuschia, pointy-toed Carlos Santana shoes and left them on the floor beside her swirly pink Crocs, then padded through the living room into the kitchen, stomach grumbling indignantly.  She switched the overhead light on and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

“Toast.  Toast would be good.  With peanut butter.”  She’d spoken aloud again.  This was not uncommon in her single existence.  She talked to her voice mail and sometimes even her e-mail; a step above talking to herself, in her opinion.

She grabbed the half-loaf of bread in its Ziploc storage bag and let the refrigerator door close itself as she broke the zipped seal and placed the bread on the cutting board.  The bread knife, always at the ready, was quickly in her right hand and, as she secured the bread with her left hand, she began to cut a slice.

“Shit!  Crap!!  Oh, man!!”  She didn’t see the mold until the knife was halfway through the loaf.  How she’d missed the plethora of green-gray growth, she wasn’t sure.  “Damn!  That totally sucks!” she complained as she transferred the loaf from the board to the trash can and slammed the lid shut for emphasis.  “Now what?”

She went back to the fridge and perused its unappetizing contents.  Her brain and stomach were stuck toast with peanut butter.  “Oh, fine.”  She went to the sink and briskly washed her hands, noting silently (she didn’t always talk to herself) that she hadn’t washed her hands before handling the moldy bread and laughed humorlessly at the irony. 

She let the water run hot for a moment as she retrieved the two-cup measure, then filled it with one and one-quarter cup hot water.  Working quickly, she pulled out a plastic mixing bowl and poured the water into it, then grabbed a packet of yeast from the pantry shelf and carefully ripped it open before shaking it into the water and whisking it briskly.  From her utensil drawer she pulled a couple measuring spoons.  She added one tablespoon of sugar and two teaspoons of salt to the mixture, then a tablespoon of vegetable oil and a quarter teaspoon of her secret ingredient.  These were whisked as well, then she used her measuring cup to measure one-half cup milk (one percent, organic) and whisked that in, too.

“Now the fun part,” she said without a trace of sarcasm.  She used both hands to transfer her clear glass flour canister to the work island and removed the lid then, using the one-half cup measure that resided within, began adding flour.  The first cup was whisked into the liquid, then the whisk was set in the sink and replaced with a shallow silicone spoon.  The second cup was stirred in, then the spoon was set in the sink.  The third cup was kneaded in with her hands, as was the next half-cup or so until she had reached the consistency she preferred. 

“You’re perfect,” she told the dough after giving it one last push.  She washed her hands and then reached into the cabinet to pull out the mixing bowl’s cover, which she placed on top of the bowl without sealing it.  She used her oven’s timer to remind her when an hour had passed, and left the kitchen after shutting off the overhead.

Switching on a table lamp in the living room, she made her way upstairs to her bedroom and stretched gracefully – and gratefully – as she changed into her super-soft thermal PJs, then slipped into a thick pair of socks and padded into the bathroom.  She allowed herself to appreciate the necessary ritual of removing her make-up and rubbing moisturizer on her dry (and dry) face and neck, made use of her toilet, washed her hands yet again (skipped the moisturizer this time), and padded into her home office.

Her computer was already running, so it was a simple matter to switch on the LCD monitor and click to open her e-mail.  She methodically deleted the messages she didn’t deem important first, then proceeded to read the assortment of motivational e-mails, some of which were then deleted while others were filed for future motivation.  Finally she attended to the meager bunch of “real” (i.e. personal) e-mails and responded as needed before deleting or filing them.

“Done!”  Pleased to be done with that necessary chore, she closed the e-mail application and hit the switch on the monitor, then stood and stretched before heading down to the kitchen and switching the overhead on again.  “Three minutes!”

She grabbed a glass bread pan out of the drainer and massaged shortening onto its interior.  “Oh!”  The timer going off startled her and she chuckled at herself as she turned off the timer and lifted the lid from the mixing bowl.  “Beautiful,” she murmured to the much larger mound of dough, breathing in the already yummy, yeasty scent.  She used her right hand to knead the dough down for several minutes before transferring it to the waiting bread pan.  Using a silicone brush, she basted the top with butter, then ripped off a piece of plastic wrap and draped it loosely atop the dough-filled pan, setting it on the stove top.

Turning the oven to three hundred seventy-five degrees, she reset the timer for thirty minutes and went about the business of cleaning up the mixing bowl, measuring cup, spoons, whisk, and bread knife, and wiped down the bread board with a damp paper towel.  She emptied the grounds from her coffee maker and cleaned the carafe, readying them for the next morning.  Finally, she pulled out the broom and dustpan and cleaned up the flour that had strayed from the bowl, emptying the dustpan into the trash can before putting it away with the broom.

“Beeeeeeep!”  Once again the timer’s shriek startled her.  She turned her attention to the pan of dough, which had increased in size just as it should.  Removing the piece of plastic wrap and tossing it into the trash can, she opened the now-hot oven with one hand and placed the bread pan inside with the other, closing the oven door firmly after it.  She set the timer yet again, this time for thirty-five minutes, then turned off the overhead and settled into her favorite chair in the living room with a contented sigh.

Picking up the remote, she turned the TV on and automatically hit the My DVR button to review the list of available recordings.  The View with its Hot Topics beckoned, and so she selected it to play and was quickly immersed in the savvy discussion of the five hosts, laughing out loud at some of their caustic commentary.  One of Whoopi’s statements reminded her of the idea to use Whoopi as her write-in candidate for president. 

Before she knew it, the timer was sounding again.  She hit the pause button and went into the kitchen, reaching for her oven mitts.  Timer off.  Oven off.  Oven door open.  “Oh, my …”  The smell of the bread combined with the dry heat of the oven was a sinful combination.

Oven door closed.  Bread turned out onto the bread board and placed upside-right.  She removed the oven mitts and grabbed the silicone brush again to re-baste the perfectly brown, crusty top with butter.  It melted into the loaf and disappeared.  She breathed in deeply again and her mouth watered.  “Leave it,” she coached herself.  The bread needed to cool a bit before she cut into it, so she forced herself to return to the living room and finish watching her program, then watched another recorded program until she couldn’t wait any longer.

“Yes,” she breathed as she cut into the still-warm loaf, beholding the lighter perfection of the bread’s interior.  “Toaster-shmoaster,” she asserted, making the decision to forego that process as she grabbed the jar of peanut butter, a table knife and a plate.  Two slices of bread – a butt and one interior – were placed onto the plate and treated to a generous spreading of peanut butter, which immediately became a beautifully molten mess.  She poured herself a glass of milk and returned to the living room, setting the plate and glass on the side table as she settled into the chair.

She reached for the plate with purposeful slowness and lifted the first slice of bread to her lips.  She took a healthy bite and moaned in delight at the satisfying texture of the fresh bread as the salty-sweet peanut butter exploded on her tastebuds.  “Thank you!” she told herself with appreciation, reaching for the remote.