Flour, water, yeast, butter and a bit of salt.
Milk powder and an egg if you really want to go all out (and I always do. . .)
Out of these humble ingredients come the most glorious food in the world.
I love bread. All kinds of bread.
But I especially love homemade bread.
It’s odd how food can become so tied to memories of people and places we love.
Bread speaks to me of my dad, son of a baker. I spent many hours in the bakery growing up and watched him make countless loaves of bread and shape bun after bun at the speed of light.
Bread speaks to me of his mom, my sweet Oma who would get up in the wee hours of the morning during weekend sleepovers just so there was piping hot bread coming out of the oven when we woke, the end piece cut just for me and slathered with butter. . .
Dad gave me a bread baking lesson at home when I was ten, but I had already had learned all I needed to know, just by watching him make loaf after loaf in the bakery.
Kneading bread and playing around until the texture is just right is such a joy for me. I feel a thrill each and every time I start a new batch.
Using my bench scraper to cut the dough brings to mind dad and his bench scraper. I weigh out my dough because I was always so fascinated with his ability to cut the dough so evenly that he almost never had to add extra bits to bring it up to the right weight. (I do. . .)
The smell of baking bread,
the sight of it’s golden crust,
the sound of the pan banging against the butcher block counter releasing it’s loaf,
the taste of warm bread dripping with melted butter. . .
These are all the things I love about homemade bread. .
I just have to give it a little pat as it cools. . . every. single. time.
Homemade bread is a beautiful thing.