Dearest Rachel –
For once when we met to go walking in the woods this week, Lars didn’t quiz me about any developments in my love life, like he usually does. To be sure, there really weren’t any to speak of – there never really are, these days – just an interesting moment tangentially related to that search. Still, it was odd for him not to ask after all these weeks of consistent inquiry.
Instead, he had a story of his own. Not about his love life as such, although it could be argued that he’s developed a bit of a passion of sorts. Based on the title of this letter, you can probably guess what it’s all about, though. Yes, he’s gotten into making his own sourdough bread; right down to creating starter from scratch (although whether he’s actually been making his own starter, or has just studied up on how to do so in case he ever wants to go that far, I wasn’t entirely clear about), and he was speaking enthusiastically about it as we made our way through the forest preserve.
Now, I somewhat understand his inclination toward homemade bread; as a doctor, he’s more aware than most people about the additives and compounds that are part of virtually every store-bought loaf. Moreover, he’s no fan of the proliferation of GMO-laden ingredients, either (although for the record, I’m indifferent as to whether they’re detrimental or not. Personally, I think that their scientifically-enhanced resistance to pests and blights allow more food to be grown, which is a net positive in an increasingly more populated world). As a result, being able to make his own food, and ensure that all he’s incorporating into his dough are wheat, salt and water have to be satisfying for him.
At the same time, it’s a fairly involved process, with long stretches of time to let the dough rest and rise several times over before forming the mixture into large balls and actually baking them in a Dutch oven within an oven (for reasons I couldn’t quite follow). Apparently, the whole process takes something in excess of twenty-four hours to complete – although he maintains that most of that time is just spent waiting for the dough to ready itself. The actual activity throughout that time takes barely five to fifteen minutes; it’s just a matter of doing it at the appointed time, which may require working the dough at one in the morning, as he had done the night before we met to walk.
While I’m glad that he’s found himself such a hobby to be captivated by – and I’m sure that, as he insists, I would enjoy the fruit of those labors (whether his or mine) – I can’t help but shake my head in wonderment at the idea of such a hobby myself. Certainly a loaf of fresh bread has its appeal (although ironically, his bread can’t be enjoyed straight out of the oven; it has to actually sit and cool for at least an hour before cutting into and eating, which ruins what I consider to be the best part of homemade bread – that of buttering a hot slice, and having it melt into the various nooks and crannies of its surface before taking a healthy bite of it), but considering how many days it takes me to go through a loaf of bread, I doubt it would stay fresh the whole time I would take to consume it. For myself, it’s too much work for not enough payoff, but as long as he’s happy doing this, good on him.
Not that I don’t have my moments of bread making, though. Just the other day, in fact, I’d come across a box of mix that, while I’d seen it in the past, I’d never considered actually taking it home and making any. But since it was practically on clearance – which you would have appreciated – I found myself wondering, why not? It’s been ages since I’ve been to a Red Lobster (and given Daniel’s aversion to seafood, it’ll probably be ages more before I darken their doors again), but if I could make something akin to their cheddar biscuits, it might be worth my while. So I bought it and brought it home…
…at which point, I realized that it made approximately ten biscuits. And while I used to be able to go through a basket of those things back in the day – as you could vouch for – even that wasn’t half as many rolls as I’d be making. Moreover, I’m trying not to eat like I used to, in any event. So if I was to do this, it would have to be in a situation where it was for more than just myself.
Luckily – although I hadn’t given the matter the slightest thought at the time – Thursday was coming up rather quickly, and it would be the perfect time to offer to do the bread course, rather than make Mom do all the work for the evening meal. And as it so happened, she hadn’t had the opportunity to get anything together in terms of bread (although she had gotten some twice-baked potatoes for the two of us, and a sweet potato for herself; this would probably have been sufficient had I not bothered to bring this mix over), so she was happy to have us pitch in this way.
Not that this was anything like assembling a loaf of sourdough – even at the reduced temperature Mom was using to cook her meatloaf, it barely required twenty minutes of baking – but it’s kind of unusual to have the subject come up twice in succeeding days like that, particularly since it’s a topic that otherwise never comes up at all. But here it was; first Lars extolling the joys of making such stuff from scratch, and then here I am, making my feeble go at it from a box mix.
It’s like Plato’s Cave, but with carbs. Oh, well… even the shadows were tasty, to be honest.
But while I work on these leftovers tonight, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on me, honey, and continue to wish me luck. Box mix or not, I’m still going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 