Susie Breadmaker
Apr. 21st, 2004 12:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittenscribbleA week or three ago, Mom got me a breadmaker. Naturally, I was thrilled; I love bread of all shapes and flavors, and to be able to make my own was a heavenly proposition.
(I've never made bread. I'm a decent cook, but I have a breadmaking phobia that can probably trace its roots back to my childhood, in which Mom baked homemade bread with terrifying ease. I assumed long ago that anything Mom can do, I cannot possibly equal; the attitude was probably appropriate in childhood but has taken overlong to fade.)
I unpacked the breadmaker right away and began assembling ingredients with an engineer's careful methodology. Flour, salt; water, yeast. I plugged in the breadmaker and punched the buttons, only to be stopped by a beep and an error message.
I looked it up. Short circuit. Call customer service or return to place of purchase.
Well, geez. In search of the short circuit, I tried to take the breadmaker apart; however, it was impossible to dismantle the machine without doing something that would obviously break the warranty. Frustrated, I reverted to childhood and called my mother. "What do I do?" I wailed. "I don't want to waste the yeast. It's already in there and everything." (Stress has the unfortunate effect of making me whine. Don't worry, I only do it to my mother, who is guaranteed to forgive me.)
"So bake it," she said reasonably. "Just like bread."
I was dubious and reluctant, but there was really no choice. So I dutifully pulled out a cooking book and read up on how to knead bread and test for doubling. Then I rechecked the instructions with Mom, and got started.
No one was more surprised than I was when I opened the oven two hours later and pulled out a steaming, beautiful loaf of bread. Honey-oatmeal bread. The warm thick aroma filled the kitchen and spilled out into the living room. The outside of the loaf was crunchy, the inside soft. I ate it all within the following two days.
I've also made a lot of bread since then. Cheese breads, coffee breads, plain breads. Kneading bread is one of the most wonderful evening activities I know of. It releases stress, keeps your hands busy, and is a good workout besides. And there's nothing so soothing and homey as the smell of baking bread.
The defective breadmaker has since been returned to the store, for a hefty store credit. If Mom hadn't bought me a breadmaker, I'd never have known the joy of breadmaking. I plan to apply that credit to a bread pan or two; I could use them.
Mmm, bread.
(I've never made bread. I'm a decent cook, but I have a breadmaking phobia that can probably trace its roots back to my childhood, in which Mom baked homemade bread with terrifying ease. I assumed long ago that anything Mom can do, I cannot possibly equal; the attitude was probably appropriate in childhood but has taken overlong to fade.)
I unpacked the breadmaker right away and began assembling ingredients with an engineer's careful methodology. Flour, salt; water, yeast. I plugged in the breadmaker and punched the buttons, only to be stopped by a beep and an error message.
I looked it up. Short circuit. Call customer service or return to place of purchase.
Well, geez. In search of the short circuit, I tried to take the breadmaker apart; however, it was impossible to dismantle the machine without doing something that would obviously break the warranty. Frustrated, I reverted to childhood and called my mother. "What do I do?" I wailed. "I don't want to waste the yeast. It's already in there and everything." (Stress has the unfortunate effect of making me whine. Don't worry, I only do it to my mother, who is guaranteed to forgive me.)
"So bake it," she said reasonably. "Just like bread."
I was dubious and reluctant, but there was really no choice. So I dutifully pulled out a cooking book and read up on how to knead bread and test for doubling. Then I rechecked the instructions with Mom, and got started.
No one was more surprised than I was when I opened the oven two hours later and pulled out a steaming, beautiful loaf of bread. Honey-oatmeal bread. The warm thick aroma filled the kitchen and spilled out into the living room. The outside of the loaf was crunchy, the inside soft. I ate it all within the following two days.
I've also made a lot of bread since then. Cheese breads, coffee breads, plain breads. Kneading bread is one of the most wonderful evening activities I know of. It releases stress, keeps your hands busy, and is a good workout besides. And there's nothing so soothing and homey as the smell of baking bread.
The defective breadmaker has since been returned to the store, for a hefty store credit. If Mom hadn't bought me a breadmaker, I'd never have known the joy of breadmaking. I plan to apply that credit to a bread pan or two; I could use them.
Mmm, bread.
