Simple Pleasures

I made bread yesterday. For the first time in twenty-five years. It was wonderful.

Melissa and I have been doing our best to shelter-in-place, including radically limiting our trips to the grocery store. Through the assistance of a friend who did a couple small shoppings for us, the delivery of one box of fresh produce and one huge shopping trip at the beginning, we have not been to the grocery store in about a month.

I had, however, before the stay-at-home order began, bought two five-pound bags of flour with the intention of baking bread for us during these days of social isolation. I had had good intentions, but the garden and writing and meditating and watching Netflix had taken precedence until yesterday.

It was when we put two of our last three slices of bread into the toaster that I was pushed into action. Of course we could just put our masks and gloves on and go carefully to the grocery store, but we’re kind of enjoying the creativity that comes when there’s not much in the cupboard and going out to dinner is not a possibility.

So yesterday morning, I got out our beat up copy of THE TASSAJARA BREAD BOOK to guide my efforts. I made the ‘sponge’—carefully beating it the requisite 100 times with a wooden spoon. I was delighted twenty minutes later to see the bubbles rise as the yeast came to life—enjoying their good fortune amidst the lukewarm water, honey, and flour. I mixed in more flour, turned the sticky mess onto the floured counter and kneaded the dough into shape.

I can’t remember exactly what is happening to the flour at this point—something about stretching the gluten or creating elasticity—but I do know that kneading is good for the bread. I also find it good for the kneader as well as the kneadee. It’s a sensuous and engagingly physical thing to do—like playing with clay or getting all dirty working in the garden or diving into a lake on a warm summer day.

Our hands were made to touch and press—to shape and know. The touching, of course, works both ways. We touch and are touched by the world. This skin is the boundary that connects us to the world around us. Everywhere we are touched—by our clothes, by the air or water or by this sticky ball of wheat and water that ever so slowly became smooth and pliable.

Back into the bowl and an hour later, it had doubled in size. Punch down (twenty soft blows are recommended) and let rise again. Divide in two. Let rest five minutes. (Why?) Shape into loaves. Let rise again for twenty minutes. Then into the 350 degree oven for an hour.

The house filled with the wonderful aroma of cooking bread. I couldn’t resist carefully peeking a couple times. Then a little before an hour, when the crust was nicely browned, I pulled out my two loaves. They fell easily out of the loaf pans and passed the thumping on the bottom hollow sound test so I let them rest.

Twenty minutes later we had fresh bread and butter with hot tea. Smell, taste and touch – such astonishing and ordinary capacities.

The whole adventure left me inordinately happy and satisfied for the rest of the day.

Personal Practice: As you prepare your food, turn your attention to your senses. Notice smells and textures as you pour, cut, and mix. Appreciate how skillfully your hands know how to hold and release – each finger a ancient miracle of engineering – performing with its own internal wisdom.

Extra Credit: Before you eat, take a moment to appreciate the many people who helped bring this food to your table—the growers and the pickers, the loaders and the truckers, the unloaders and the shelf-stockers, the check-out clerks and you yourself who prepared the meal.