Liveblogging the Bread

No, I don't have any pictures to show you. The lighting in my kitchen is appallingly bad and my camera is not a good enough one that it can make up for the bad lighting.

If you are just landing here, here is the recipe.

King Arthur Unbleached Bread Flour--I just happened to grab that before I found the all-purpose flour. I doubt that it makes a difference in this case.

Yeast: I used a very generous 1/4 teaspoon. Heaping, almost. I didn't have instant yeast, as called for in the recipe, so I made a couple of adjustments: that little extra bit of rapid rise, for example, and also adding about 1/8 teaspoon of sugar.

One of the blogs I saw (I think it may have been Smitten Kitchen, actually) suggests that 1/3 teaspoon of rapid rise yeast is the way to go. I may try that next time.

1 1/2 teaspoons table salt

Water: 1 5/8 cups of warm water.

I whisked the yeast, sugar, and water together in a big bowl this morning around 9. That's not a step that's called for in the recipe, but because the recipe also doesn't call for sugar and I wasn't using instant yeast, I wanted to give it a little head start.


Then I dumped in the flour, and, on top of the flour, the salt. Salt retards the action of yeast, which is why I dumped it on top. I have no idea if that made a difference at all.


I stirred it all together with a wooden spoon. The dough looked rough and shaggy, like the recipe says it should. I didn't find a picture of the what the dough should look like until later tonight, but when I did, it looked just like what I had made. So, I'm happy.


I let the dough rise without disturbing it for 12 hours. That seems to be the minimum rise time described by nearly every account on every website I looked at. At 9 tonight, the dough looked swollen, bubbly, and by all accounts, a great deal like it was supposed to. I was comfortable with punching it down at this point.


A small aside: I didn't actually punch it down. I dumped it out onto a very clean, well-floured countertop, and with wet hands (the flour/water ratio seems to be important here) I gave it a couple of turns, then tucked the ends under to make a (basically) smooth ball of dough.


I did the 15-minute rest that the Bittman recipe recommends. Not every website mentions this rest. I didn't know if it was important or not, but I did err on the side of caution in this case. Usually I prefer to err on the side of error. We'll see how this all plays out. Anyway--rested on the counter, lightly covered with plastic wrap.


I put the bread down for the second rise on a clean, well-floured cotton flour sack towel. They cost about $6 for five of them, and we bought a bunch of them when Max was a baby. He had reflux and a regular burp cloth was more like something for him to projectile-vomit past than an effective parenting tool. I covered it with another well-floured towel. As it turned out, flouring this towel wasn't really necessary, as the bowl I used was deep and the dough never rose that high. I did worry a little about the dough drying out and getting that funky skin on it as it rose, but it didn't.


I let it rise for a full 2 hours. At the 1 hour mark, I had Dan wash the Dutch oven. As I mentioned before, ours is used so often that it's rarely clean. At the half-hour mark, I cranked the oven to 450, wrapped the plastic handle on the lid in several layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil (the manufacturer says it's safe without it; again, erring on the side of caution) and slid the pot and lid into the oven to preheat.


Half an hour later, my kitchen smells odd. I should clean the oven more often.


I slide the pot out of the oven (using potholders! Big, thick ones. I think it's almost as important to have faith in your potholders as your spouse, and to not have that faith betrayed. You'll never again trust either a cheating spouse or a half-assed potholder; ask anyone who's had either) and take off the lid. The pot, which went into the oven dry, releases a puff of slightly odd-smelling steam. Okaaay.


This dough is extremely sticky. Following one blogger's advice, I put a big square of parchment paper over the mouth of the pot, then go to dump the bread onto the parchment, where, it is my hope, that it will all collapse into the pot. Not so: the dough is firmly stuck to the bottom towel, the one I had faithfully floured so thoroughly. I coax/peel/squish the dough off the towel and onto the parchment, carefully not burning myself on the extremely hot pot. Lid on, and into the oven.


"Is everything okay in there?" Dan asks as I shut the oven door. "Those are some...interesting smells." I love the smell of napalm in the morning. I set the timer for 30 minutes, and after some consideration (our oven does run a little hot) I back the temperature down to 425 and contemplate how to get all of the stuck-on dough off the towel without it destroying our washing machine. It's a question for another day.


The funky smell has faded from the kitchen by the time the timer goes off. I take the lid off the pot for the first time, not sure what I'll find. This part is embarassing to me. When I see what's in the pot, I actually utter the following phrase out loud:


"Oh, Daddy."


Lightly golden brown all over, slightly craggy and rustic-looking, yet expertly rounded, the half-baked loaf of bread is like something out of a very good, very expensive bakery. This is the appearance I had in mind when I got it into my head to bake bread: something that would impress the shit out of people. The last time I got this feeling was the first time I held Max after he was born: I can't believe I did this. It's what passes for cautious optimism around here. For the first time since changing my major from photojournalism to print journalism at the end of my freshman year of college, I regret not being a more skilled photographer.


At the 14-minute mark, I go back to the kitchen, take out a wire cooling rack, and set it on the counter. I open the oven door and make a noise I don't quite recognize--probably because I don't watch a lot of porn. The bread is...it's everything I hoped it would be. The crust is crackling and deeply golden.


My only regret, so far, besides not flouring the towel sufficiently, is that I have to wait until tomorrow morning to cut into this thing.


This morning, I walk into the kitchen and lift the towel I've draped over the loaf--it offers no protection whatsoever, but it makes me feel better for some reason. The crust has retained every ounce of its crisp character. It looks...just like bread should look when it's exactly right. It's a thing of beauty. I use a serrated knife to pierce the crust, and before I've even sliced a piece off, I can feel that the crumb is light, tender, airy, and yet substantial. Again, what it should look like when it's exactly right. Into the toaster it goes.

And I eat the toast with butter. It's the best loaf of bread I've ever made, by a long shot. It is not a perfect loaf of bread. It is just a tiny bit salty. While I'd never describe the inside as "gummy," like a few people have, the interior does have a certain...dampness, but not in an unpleasant way. I'm not sure how to describe it. Flavorwise, it's incredibly deep, developed, intensely yeasty. The flavor that long slow rise imparts is like seeing color TV for the first time. It changes how I feel about bread.

As far as what I'd compare it to: maybe a good ciabatta bread. Wonderbread it ain't. I think it would make an incredible sandwich, maybe one with cold leftover roast pork loin sliced thin, a little caramelized onion relish, grainy mustard; or smoked deli turkey, very thinly sliced granny smith apple, sharp cheddar, butter lettuce, and mayonnaise. I'm telling you, I could start a sandwich revolution. I also think it would make some seriously special garlic bread.

So, next time (which will probably be today, because I am just this kind of person), I will step the yeast up to 1/3 of a teaspoon and leave out the sugar. I will dial the salt back to 1 1/8 tsp. I will do the second rise on parchment. I will probably do 1/2 bread flour and 1/2 all purpose, just to see what the difference is.

At some point in the future, I'd like to acquire an oval dutch oven (mine is round) in a 3 1/2 quart or 4 quart size, to make more loaf-shaped loaves. I am very fond the one I have, but a smaller, more narrow one might make sense. I'd also like to try some add-ins: maybe kalamata olives and fresh rosemary, sun-dried tomatoes and basil, fresh thyme and grated romano cheese.

The bread is a very-nearly-unqualified success.

In Which our Heroine Goes Totally off the Reservation and Writes a Letter to a Random Body Part

Dear Lower Back,

Please stop it, you're hurting me.

Seriously, whatever it is that's happening right now...wait, I know what's happening right now. I have a 20-week-old fetus in residence, and their head is resting against the top of my tailbone. That's according to my new, very sweet obstetrician, who I saw this week. She is a part of the practice who will be delivering the fetus-in-residence on June 27th, give or take.

Not that you care about any of that, Lower Back. All you care about is yourself. That's fine. You're selfish, I get it.

Listen, you know that I can't do anything about all the pain you're causing me. I know that, because you and I have talked about it before. Seriously, just this morning, when we were lying in bed together--remember, I was crying, I was asking you to just stop hurting me, because ohmigod, the pain...Okay. No, I didn't think you were listening at the time either, but I just wanted to let you know how I was feeling.

The very sweet obstetrician was just so nice that I kept almost forgetting that she was a doctor, and when she took a look with the ultrasound yesterday and saw 20-week-old-fetus butt, and that was about it...she hypothesized that the reason you're hurting me so freaking much is that there's a forehead pressed against my lower back. I understand, you know? It can't be all that comfortable to have a forehead pressed against you. I'm sure it's unpleasant for you.

I just...I don't know. I think you're being a little bit self-centered, is all. You know, we're stuck with each other for a little while, and the lease on my lady bits doesn't run out until June, so we're both stuck with the fetus, too. I think we all ought to learn to get along together. I've been talking to the fetus on your behalf; I know you're not great about talking about your feelings, so I just thought I would say something. I know it's not that fun to have a head pushed up against you. It's not a big head or anything, but still--it's a head where there usually isn't a head. I understand. Also, when I have another, more advanced ultrasound on Friday, I really want to find out whether it's a boy fetus or a girl fetus, and unless it moves around a little by Friday, we won't be able to see much of the determining factor. I'm just trying to think about all of us here, you know?

It's just that the thing I'm not sure you're aware of is that when I would usually seek some sort of pain remedy in order to deal with the fact that you're really causing me a lot of pain right now, I no longer have that luxury. I guess it's bad for the fetus for me to take Aleve, or Motrin, or to inject pure Pakistani heroin directly into the sclera of my left eyeball. I don't know if you knew that was bad for the fetus...I mean, I'd heard, and I said something to you about it this morning, but I know it was early, and you really don't do mornings that well. I can take Tylenol, but, I mean, come on. My three year old can take Tylenol. What's that supposed to do to help me? I use the heating pad on you--I know you like that a lot, because when I do that, sometimes you leave me alone for, like, a whole hour--but I can't bring it to work, because I don't have anywhere to plug it in.

Listen, I really hate to be a nag. You don't want to listen to me whine for the next 20 weeks, do you? Could we work something out? Like, maybe I'll just write you this letter, and you'll stop hurting me, and we can both just move on from here? Try to get along and live together? I know we can--we've done so well together up to this point. But like I said, you're really hurting me. I just want you to stop. I'll forgive you, I promise--it'll all be water under the bridge. But I need you to really make an effort, show me that you want this as bad as I do. We're in it together now, Lower Back. I can't do this without you--and by this I mean, you know, walking around, or sitting, or standing, or pretty much anything--and I'm pretty sure you won't get far without me, so can we try to work it out? For the baby?

Please?

Love,
Molly

M'mm Good, M'mm Good...

Over the summer, while Dan has been at home with Max and I've been at work, we've gotten into the habit of grocery shopping on Monday nights after I get home. The grocery store is relatively uncrowded and Max needs to get out of the house.

Tonight I witnessed one of the truly most appalling displays of rudeness I think I've ever seen. As Dan and I were coming out of the grocery store, right in front of us, a woman had stopped her car, one of those giant Dodge Whatchamacallit station wagons, partially angled back toward an occupied parking spot. She had gotten out of her car, and she was clearly toward the end of a pregnancy with what I can only hope was twins.

As we were walking towards the parking lot, she started calling to a man who we couldn't see from where we were standing, because he hadn't gotten out of his car yet. "Excuse me, sir?" she called. "Sir? I was backing into that spot. Sir? Sir?"

I will be the first to admit that I don't understand the phenomena of backing into parking spots, which is all the rage here. I have never backed into a parking spot in my life unless I was stalking some boy and thought I might have to make a quick getaway. And yet, probably fifty times since we moved to Maryland, I've been following someone through a crowded parking lot and been just about to drop to my knees in gratitude as they passed the one last unoccupied spot in the entire lot without pulling in, only to have them stop short, and have to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting them as they throw their car into reverse and back into the spot that I thought they were passing up.

The man who she was calling to was a middle-aged white man, driving a big grey Mercury sedan. He waved cheerfully at her, as though she was commenting on what a blue sky and fresh breeze was blowing today, calmly ignoring her and went stalking into the store, right past Dan and I. She shook her head, stuffed herself back into her car, and took the next available spot, which was easily another hundred yards out in the lot, as opposed to the spot that Old Fart appropriated for his own use, which was the second spot in the lot.

I was totally outraged on this woman's behalf. "Cocksucker," is what I said, plenty loud enough for the old fart to hear me, and glaring openly in his direction.

Dan is always horrified when I become openly profane and confrontational, but he didn't seem like the type to follow a thirty-something yuppie woman and soundly kick her ass in front of her husband and three-year-old son. Nevertheless, he shushed me with the consternation that I've come to fully expect from my husband.

As I continued to rage against middle-aged white men everywhere (I can't remember what exactly I said, but the name John McCain and the term "ignorant-ass John Birch Society member" may have been mentioned more than once) while we put groceries in the car, Dan snickered to himself. "Too bad Campbell's not here," he said.

"Who's Campbell?" I said, pausing in my red-faced rant against Republicans and Other Bad People.

"He's this guy I knew growing up," he said. Dan grew up in a northern Michigan town on Lake Michigan which grew from about 8,000 year-round residents to about 80,000 tourists every summer, famously snarling traffic, crowding sidewalks and beaches, and in general, lacking in courtesy or couth of any kind, earning the nickname "fudgies" for the massive quantities of fudge that they bought and consumed. "Campbell used to carry a bottle of pee in his car. And any time a fudgie would cut him off in traffic, he would follow them and wait until they parked their car and walked away, and then he'd pour the pee all over the inside of their car."

It was, as you might anticipate, the first time that I regretted not having a bottle of pee in my minivan, and that I didn't even have to go a little bit, as I did notice that Old Fart had unwisely left his window open. I briefly contemplated dropping a couple of eggs through the window, but Dan, in his infinite wisdom and as the better person and party-pooper in this relationship, wouldn't hear of it.

In the time that it took us to load up our groceries, for me to load Max into his car seat, and for Dan to return the cart, Old Fart came out with his Evil Cocktail Mix or his loaf of Craphole Bread or whatever he went in for and got into his car. I backed out of my parking spot and blocked him into his. "Molly," Dan said in his best I'm-Warning-You voice.

I waved cheerfully at Old Fart. He waved cheerfully back, clearly not recognizing me as the person who'd called him a cocksucker not five minutes earlier. I rolled down my window, and he did the same. "Hey Asshole," I called. "God saw you take that parking spot." The smile fell off his face. "And He thinks your car is ugly."

I drove off feeling vindicated, despite the fact that I hadn't come up with anything better than my ka-ka-head poo-poo-face school of insult-hurling.

But as God is my witness, I'm going to get a funnel and an old 2-liter bottle. And Campbell is going to be my new role model in childish revenge schemes carried out on other people's behalf.

I Realize This Is Weird, But...

This morning, I made homemade mayonnaise. And now I have the mayonnaise equivalent of a bumper crop of zucchini.

I know, I really need to find a job. I got it. But I love homemade mayonnaise, and making it is just so much fun. It's like magic--it goes into the food processor liquid, and it comes out really thick and gooey. It has something to do with fat molecules suspending the water molecules, and emulsions, and some other chemistry that I don't really care that much about because I am not Alton Brown. But still, it is just so cool to watch, and by the way, yum. It tastes so much better than anything that you buy in the store, mostly because it isn't made of things like gelatin, like your regular mayonnaise is. But the smallest manageable amount of mayonnaise that you can possibly make is, like, 11 pounds of mayonnaise. Okay, it's like 4 cups. But that is really a lot of mayonnaise. And homemade mayonnaise tastes better and stronger than the stuff that comes in a jar, and a little goes a long way.

Here's the question, and it's a really good one, so think hard (or not at all, because it's really only a good question to me): What do you like mayonnaise on, or in, or with? Because this recipe made about six months' worth of mayonnaise, and I just can't eat all of this myself.

If you'd like some mayonnaise, and you live in the D.C. area, let me know. I will personally deliver homemade mayonnaise to you. Is that a job, do you think? Could I make money AND mayonnaise?

That sounds ideal.

April Will Certainly Be Cruel To Me, At Least

Oh, remember back in November? Do you remember that miserable month last year, right after my in-laws were here for three weeks under the most appalling and stressful set of circumstances I really can imagine? That month where I committed to blogging every day for a month, because, well, basically because if everybody jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge I would totally do it too?

So they've made it a thing for every month, not just November, and because blogging every day over here is not enough, not when my job...oh, my job. My job, it is terrible right now. I have no words. It's enough to make me forget to clear my browser history at work. Ever heard of being Dooced? That would be really passive-aggressive of me, wouldn't it?

So the theme is letters, and I like letters, and so I'm going to try it in April. I'm hoping that it will be cathartic for me, and will maybe pad the impact that my professional life is having as it blasts into me full-speed, over and over again.

Newly Obsessed

My new fascination is shibori, an ancient Japanese fiber technique. Have I told you how much I love Ravelry, by the way? It is a web application for yarn artists (that's what fancy-pants knitters call themselves) that functions sorta like Myspace, only without all the pictures of 17-year-old girls in their bras. Oh my God, the Google searches that last sentence will almost certainly generate. I apologize in advance.

I saw a few felted shibori scarves in Ravelry and I love them. They are so neat looking, not drapey like an unfelted scarf in wool or alpaca would be, but with real visual interest due to the 3-D nature of the construction.

So as soon as I am done knitting for Kimberly's coming attraction, I am going to try shibori. And with no further ado, here is my homemade, badly-illustrated guide to shibori felt.

Before you make fun of my illustrations, I think that we should all take a minute to think about the fact that uploading pictures to blogger is really just about at the outer range of my technical know-how, so I'm sorry about the teensy type in the pictures, but I hope you can squint sufficiently to get the idea of what it is that I'm talking about when I say that this is the coolest thing ever.

While in the Stirrups...

Kimberly had a thought this morning: they should combine going to the gynocologist with a visit to the aesthetician. That way, since you're already humiliated and naked from the waist down, that might be a good time to go ahead, put your feet in the air, and get that nicely finished product you've been considering.

I feel quite certain gynocologists and bikini waxers will both have a problem with this plan, but I think it's a great idea. And, as Kimberly has said, now that gynocologists are performing plastic surgery, even in the nether regions, that line is blurring a little.

Personally, I like to scream in agony in the privacy of my own home, but that's me. Also, were I to get plastic surgery, I would not waste it on an area of such visual inaccessability.

Happy Halloween, designers. Carry on.