It’s been pouring rain around here. It’s a blessing to have a kitchen and a well stocked pantry to putter around in when going outside is not the best option. Sometimes I feel like a mad scientist in the kitchen, a fantasy that my family reinforces when they say that that is what I am. Other times they call me a witch, when I get out my herbs and make bitter brews…
But, sometimes, I feel like an artist, or maybe not the artist, but I feel like I understand the pleasure an artist probably gets from her pure palette before she ever paints a stroke.
What seems like a long time ago now, when I was a single mother of two, I had mastered a small repertoire of recipes and baking was not included. I was the stovetop queen of East Harlem. So after I moved to California and then got married (and quickly had two more kids,) I was proud of myself when I started baking muffins and other treats. I felt pretty smart when I also started canning the vegetables and fruits that my husband grew in abundance in our little backyard. Even so, when we moved here to Greenville almost nine years ago, I was still a virgin bread baker. I had never used yeast for anything. But I was no virgin to eating bread, and have always preferred it fresh.
I started off with a bread machine that I have since gotten rid of after I realized that most good bread rises twice, and you have to flirt with it for a few minutes in between rises to get the best out of it. For a little while I thought I had arrived after turning out some beautifully braided challah loaves, Belgian waffles and seasonal cinnamon rolls. I also admired the rows of pickled peppers, cucumbers, and cabbage on my pantry shelves. But after awhile I wasn’t satisfied. It was all foreplay, the yeast in my baking goods, the vinegar in my canned goods, the carbonation in my soda.