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Of Crust and Crumb

It was decidedly freakish to be the kid whose dad made bread for school lunches.

Peanut butter and jelly notwithstanding, anything slathered between two mysteriously dark slices eschewed good trades. A faint yeasty beer aroma lingering in the almost black crust sealed my fate; lunchroom companions snarfed happily into their corndogs and cookies, too young in middle school for desires of alcohol, leaving me to my totally uncool rustic fare.

Looking back, I have to give pops credit for trying so hard. I also thank my 10-year-old self for being forgiving in some manner for things that were not perfect. Slowly, the bread progressed, gaining in loft, lightening in color, lessening in beer taste. By the time I entered high school, dad’s weekly men’s group requested that he make loaves for their breakfast gossip sessions.

Of course all I wanted was a white slice, pulled from a bag and capable of de-crusting with little more than a tear. Alas, I only enjoyed the pleasures of chemically derived wheat-stuffs for a couple of college dorm food semesters.

 

And yet, I took my sweet time before stepping up to the baking stone and flour, intimidated by memories of my father kneading, and kneading some more. It seemed a realm inhabited by muscular forearms coated in hair that magically never made it into the loaves. A world of waiting for leavening to occur, requiring skills of planning and time management, which I had not quite developed in my early 20s.

Then, as with many epiphanies, I realized dad was onto something. In addition to all of his impressive character traits seen ever more clearly through maturing eyes, I realized the entirety of his joy in crafting loaves. It is focusing, tactile, and magical. It is creative and beautifully different every time. It can be messy, it’s rather cheap, and it stuns friends and family. Why would one ever settle for the culture of store bought bread so prevalent in this country when exceptional deliciousness is so achievable?

So it is with everything: you just have to do it. I floured up my hands (and pants and kitchen floor) with complete sincerity just a couple of years ago. An excellent cookbook in hand, and dad eagerly answering all phone calls, I set into this love affair with all senses firing. Half-eaten loaves baked in a frenzy began to accumulate in the freezer, waiting for re-incarnation as breadcrumbs. Friends received invites to dinner only to fill up on my newest bread creation as an appetizer.

Comforting in the way we’d all like to remember our childhood homes to be, the smell of bread baking evokes early morning darkness lifting in front of a roaring wood fire. My feet were always cold as a child, and I would run across our stone floor to capture the chair facing the stove. Shortly, dad would pull a loaf from the oven, releasing earthen smells across the stone-chilled air. Butter and honey were slathered and drizzled, sometimes a thick jam. Now, two decades later, a great olive oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper, perhaps a dab of cayenne. Crunching into new crusts has evolved into an evening event, complete with wine and friends eager to flour their souls in such comforting tradition.
 

To get started on your own bread journeys:

• I recommend Jim Lahey’s book chronicling his revolutionary, no-knead methods: My Bread. First written about in the New York Times back in 2006, Lahey’s basic recipe will officially convince you that you can do anything! Yes, even climb Baldy in under an hour. You’ll be able to do so on all the carbohydrates you inhale once you make this method of bread and realize how delicious and simple bread-making can be.

 

• Beware of total addiction, however, because many more breads await sampling. I began with Flatbreads & Flavors by Naomi Duguid and Jeffrey Alford. Self-described culinary anthropologists, this world-galavanting couple has compiled a host of bread recipes from around the world, thus enabling you, the chef, to sample cultural diversity in your own home. Having failed repeatedly at breads requiring multiple rising sessions and half-hour kneading sessions, the title of this book instilled immediate confidence in me. Each recipe is accompanied by suggestions for what to eat alongside, and short stories of subtle beauty shed light on the authors’ own baking process.