To me, making bread is as private an activity as taking that first glance outside the window first thing in the morning. You want to get your bearings, make sure the world is still there, are the neighbors awake? Are the bushes shriveled with cold? The birdbath frozen with all those beautiful leaves trapped underneath? And, what, for heaven's sake is Bob up to across the street backing cars out of his drive and parking them on the street.
First thing is to ensure privacy while you bake bread. This is if we're gonna make it a spiritual experience. And let's face it. There are few spiritual experiences during the American Christmas experience.
When I had fullblown manic depression I was far more spiritual than I am today. I wrote the bulk of my poetry then and found God in every church steeple I saw or every bird that stopped to drink from my birdbath. And, oh, those praying mantises that regularly visited every fall. What regal individuals they are!
Alone with my ingredients I stand before them in my green Starbucks apron. I am ready to knead. This is the holy part and has always been so. I have always thought of kneading the bread as creating a baby. My hands are ready, having been thoroughly spread with olive oil as has the dough.
Wearing my clogs, both for elevation & comfort, I begin the rhythmic motion of kneading as I watch the bread progress & develop slowly. You can watch the transformation beneath your fingers and it brings an abiding sense of joy that you yourself are carrying on this ancient tradition, that you yourself have CHOSEN to be a breadmaker.
Inhale its rich aroma! There is only one thing, I tell my breadmaking classes, you can do wrong. You mustn't let it rise too high or it will fall upon itself and exude a powerful stench of alcohol. Kind of like a politican, huh? Or an African or South American king! Not to mention our own 43rd president of the United States, The Universal Moron.
You must pay attention to your bread not unlike a baby in the other room. Heed its call. Know its needs. I use a timer.
My whole wheat challah, the bowl covered by a damp towel, is now undergoing its second rising. Did I hear the ding of the timer? Not sure so I will go in & check. Take no chances where bread or babies are concerned.
It's now ready to be shaped into loaves. I make braids & set one braid on top of the other pinching them together so the top one won't topple off. Then comes the egg wash & liberal sprinkling of poppy seeds.
The whole house smells of industriousness when a woman bakes her own bread. Then and only then will I go downstairs & work on my novel.
It is also necessary while kneading to constantly admire the bread. While you needn't say I love you, you might say, as I do, "You're so beautiful!"
