Last week, I set out to make a loaf of bread in my bread machine. I used my “go-to” recipe; it is simple and always turns out well. I mix the ingredients then press the on button and walk away. But this time when I pressed the button, I heard a loud screech and the dough blade stopped. Oh no, it’s broken! I felt jangled, like I had suddenly lost a dear friend or maybe even a family member. I almost wanted to cry. That machine and I had some history. And I was very hungry for a warm piece of crunchy toast covered with melted Irish butter mixed with honey (if there were only two foods in the world and those were bread and butter I’d be good with that).
But what to do now? I didn’t want to throw the dough away. In a spontaneous move, I plopped the contents on the kitchen counter and mixed the dough with my hands. Then, once mixed, I kneaded it for a few minutes. I could definitely tell when the dough was finished; suddenly it took on a certain firmness and it seemed to say “you can stop now.”
I had read about making bread in a cast iron Dutch oven. I had one, in fire engine red, and I was so happy every time I used it. I oiled the pot and plopped the wad of dough smack in the middle. In a moment of ingenuity, I put the Dutch oven on my cat heating pad to make the rises speed up. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the dough rise; it was a living being! Ninety minutes later, the bread was ready to be popped in the oven.
I removed the bread from the oven and let it cool. Then the anticipated moment had arrived. I cut off a piece and without having the patience to toast it first, took a bite. I was filled with surprise and delight. The crumb was tender and fluffy almost like cake, yet the crust was brown and crispy. This bread was far better than the machine’s bread, yet I had used the exact same recipe. This bread seemed more whole and complete.
Over the next few days, I pondered. Why was my bread so much better than the machine’s bread? Maybe it was because my spirit infused the dough. I had lovingly kneaded and tended the dough while watching it rise. That bread must have absorbed my joy because that is exactly what it tasted like. It didn’t take much more effort to make that loaf the old-fashioned way. I like these words: edible joy. That’s short for homemade toasted bread, butter, and honey. Are you hungry now?