i'm pretty awful at measuring things, so some things are approximate. particularly the salt. it's a little over 1 tsp. also the measuring is a little weird because it was adapted from a recipe for six loaves. (yes, i really, honestly do use half an egg. i've never tried using the whole thing.) i never actually take the temperature of the water. 105° is slightly warmer than body temperature, so i just run the water across my wrist until it feels a little bit warm.
this makes one loaf.
24.2.10
flashback: fresh baked
i've been meaning to update this blog for some time now. i have several half-finished posts lurking in the wings that i haven't gotten around to finishing. but now i'm sitting at my desk and i'm taking advantage of my self-mandated lunch hour to actually create a stage-ready post.
before i was born, my family lived in a tiny little town in southern utah. it's right on the border of arizona, a little hitching post in the middle of nowhere. my siblings grew up across the street from my father's parents in a house my great-grandfather helped build. my mother made bread every week and my father hunted. they ate venison from the deer he shot, pork and bacon from the pigs in the pen out back, t-bone steaks from the cows in the pasture, tomatoes and potatoes from my grandfather's award-winning garden, sun-warmed apricots from my grandmother's trees.
four days after i was born, my father got a new job. we moved to suburbia and haven't returned to rural life since. my father never hunted after i was born, never fished. tomatoes and potatoes came from the grocery store, apricots came from jars gathered from my grandmother's cellar during our summer visits. my mother made bread maybe three times a year, even less as we got older.
for my siblings, when they were young, home-baked bread was normal, dull. marshmallowy wonderbread was an exotic treat. for me, home-baked bread was the food equivalent of el dorado.
at my grandmother's house, where there was home made bread for most of my childhood, i tore slices into pieces and poured milk over them, sometimes with a sprinkle of sugar. when my mother baked her rare loaves, she would bake them six at a time. two would be gone in a matter of minutes as we all carved off pieces to slather with margarine and gobble up still-hot. sometimes she would save a loaf-worth of dough and cut it into pieces that she would roll out into flat, uneven blobs and fry in butter on a skillet. (these were usually served with plain boiled navy beans, the abhorred staple of my childhood.) other times, she would roll out a huge rectangle of dough and sprinkle it with cinnamon, sugar, and raisins, roll it up in a log, and snip off slices with a strand of dental floss. these were baked into plump cinnamon rolls and drizzled with glaze. during one particularly horrid blizzard in our part of pennsylvania, when we were cold from playing in the snow and my mother impatient for comfort, the unbaked rolls were flattened out and fried in that same way, gliding across a buttered skillet.
now that i've moved out on my own, i've rediscovered bread. it happened on a whim, a way for my sister and me to blow off steam after a particularly hellish week. now, it's a habit. a sort of therapy. on weekends, i dust off my mother's old recipe, the same recipe my grandmother used. i've whittled the recipe down to make only one loaf and adapted it for my tastes-- more whole wheat flour, less white flour. more yeast, a dash more salt, half honey instead of all white sugar. i don't subscribe to the no-knead method. the kneading is the point of it for me-- those minutes spent turning a mess of flour into something smooth and round and purposeful. i was talking about bread with someone and he said, in a halting, second-guessing way, "this... sounds weird, but bread dough feels kind of like... like a person." i laughed and said it was, indeed, weird. but it's true. when bread dough is kneaded it becomes as solid as a person's arm, smooth as a cheek. it's warm-- water added at just above body temperature and kept there by the heat of the baker's hands. i like kneading. i turn on some music, roll up my sleeves, and get to it. i don't think of anything else, really-- just the bread, the music. it's comfortable. comforting.
making bread is connected with so many other people, so many memories, that it's no wonder that i look forward to my weekend baking session. it's why i-- who grow impatient when it takes a webpage more than four seconds to load-- am willing to carve out several hours of my weekend just for one loaf of bread.
the first slice, taken from the end, is always torn up into a bowl with milk poured over, sometimes with a sprinkle of sugar.
before i was born, my family lived in a tiny little town in southern utah. it's right on the border of arizona, a little hitching post in the middle of nowhere. my siblings grew up across the street from my father's parents in a house my great-grandfather helped build. my mother made bread every week and my father hunted. they ate venison from the deer he shot, pork and bacon from the pigs in the pen out back, t-bone steaks from the cows in the pasture, tomatoes and potatoes from my grandfather's award-winning garden, sun-warmed apricots from my grandmother's trees.
four days after i was born, my father got a new job. we moved to suburbia and haven't returned to rural life since. my father never hunted after i was born, never fished. tomatoes and potatoes came from the grocery store, apricots came from jars gathered from my grandmother's cellar during our summer visits. my mother made bread maybe three times a year, even less as we got older.
for my siblings, when they were young, home-baked bread was normal, dull. marshmallowy wonderbread was an exotic treat. for me, home-baked bread was the food equivalent of el dorado.
at my grandmother's house, where there was home made bread for most of my childhood, i tore slices into pieces and poured milk over them, sometimes with a sprinkle of sugar. when my mother baked her rare loaves, she would bake them six at a time. two would be gone in a matter of minutes as we all carved off pieces to slather with margarine and gobble up still-hot. sometimes she would save a loaf-worth of dough and cut it into pieces that she would roll out into flat, uneven blobs and fry in butter on a skillet. (these were usually served with plain boiled navy beans, the abhorred staple of my childhood.) other times, she would roll out a huge rectangle of dough and sprinkle it with cinnamon, sugar, and raisins, roll it up in a log, and snip off slices with a strand of dental floss. these were baked into plump cinnamon rolls and drizzled with glaze. during one particularly horrid blizzard in our part of pennsylvania, when we were cold from playing in the snow and my mother impatient for comfort, the unbaked rolls were flattened out and fried in that same way, gliding across a buttered skillet.
now that i've moved out on my own, i've rediscovered bread. it happened on a whim, a way for my sister and me to blow off steam after a particularly hellish week. now, it's a habit. a sort of therapy. on weekends, i dust off my mother's old recipe, the same recipe my grandmother used. i've whittled the recipe down to make only one loaf and adapted it for my tastes-- more whole wheat flour, less white flour. more yeast, a dash more salt, half honey instead of all white sugar. i don't subscribe to the no-knead method. the kneading is the point of it for me-- those minutes spent turning a mess of flour into something smooth and round and purposeful. i was talking about bread with someone and he said, in a halting, second-guessing way, "this... sounds weird, but bread dough feels kind of like... like a person." i laughed and said it was, indeed, weird. but it's true. when bread dough is kneaded it becomes as solid as a person's arm, smooth as a cheek. it's warm-- water added at just above body temperature and kept there by the heat of the baker's hands. i like kneading. i turn on some music, roll up my sleeves, and get to it. i don't think of anything else, really-- just the bread, the music. it's comfortable. comforting.
making bread is connected with so many other people, so many memories, that it's no wonder that i look forward to my weekend baking session. it's why i-- who grow impatient when it takes a webpage more than four seconds to load-- am willing to carve out several hours of my weekend just for one loaf of bread.
the first slice, taken from the end, is always torn up into a bowl with milk poured over, sometimes with a sprinkle of sugar.
29.1.10
flashback: comfort in a can.
today was not a good day. it was just stressful and disorganized and by the time i left work (twelve hours after i started work) i was a bit of a frazzled mess. i got home and went to my cupboard to pull out the big guns, my ultimate comfort food.
deviled chicken in a can.
yes. i, the elitist foodie, absolutely love the deviled chicken that comes from that little paper-wrapped can you find in the creepily-named "canned meat" section of the grocery store. there's usually a can tucked in my cupboard, kept there just for those bad days when nothing goes right.
i didn't grow up near my grandparents. i got to see them maybe once a year as part of epic cross-country drives in the family van. my dad's parents lived in southern utah, my mom's parents near seattle. at the little yellow house in southern utah, i feasted on home-made banana-nut cookies and fresh apricots and ate dried bananas while i sat on my grandpa's knee. in washington, at the green house with the big bush out front, it was cocoa pebbles in the morning and deviled chicken sandwiches on wonder bread for lunch, accompanied by carrots pulled right out of the ground, dusted off on the thigh of my grandpa's slacks. (washing the carrots ruined the flavor.) i was the only person in my family who liked the chicken, besides my grandfather, so he and i would split a can and enjoy our special, secret, delicious sandwiches, half-pitying all the crazy people who didn't know the joys of canned chicken on wonder bread.
i had a special kind of relationship with my grandpa green. i was closer to him than any of my siblings were, right up until the end of his life. it makes me sad, sometimes, that no one else got to know him like i did-- not as the stern, vaguely-scary version of him they saw, but the mellowed, sweet man he became later in life. the man who played my little ponies with me and took me to feed the ducks (wearing his green cardigan and fedora, which i remember still, clear as day). the man who would sit on the sofa with me and ask me to talk about god with him. the man who shared his favorite sandwich with me.
that's why i really love chicken sandwiches-- not because of their actual culinary value, but because they remind me of all of that. because, with every single bite, there's a memory. and that's why, for those bad days, i keep that little can in my cupboard, so that i can tear the paper off and remember that things are okay after all.
deviled chicken in a can.
yes. i, the elitist foodie, absolutely love the deviled chicken that comes from that little paper-wrapped can you find in the creepily-named "canned meat" section of the grocery store. there's usually a can tucked in my cupboard, kept there just for those bad days when nothing goes right.
i didn't grow up near my grandparents. i got to see them maybe once a year as part of epic cross-country drives in the family van. my dad's parents lived in southern utah, my mom's parents near seattle. at the little yellow house in southern utah, i feasted on home-made banana-nut cookies and fresh apricots and ate dried bananas while i sat on my grandpa's knee. in washington, at the green house with the big bush out front, it was cocoa pebbles in the morning and deviled chicken sandwiches on wonder bread for lunch, accompanied by carrots pulled right out of the ground, dusted off on the thigh of my grandpa's slacks. (washing the carrots ruined the flavor.) i was the only person in my family who liked the chicken, besides my grandfather, so he and i would split a can and enjoy our special, secret, delicious sandwiches, half-pitying all the crazy people who didn't know the joys of canned chicken on wonder bread.
i had a special kind of relationship with my grandpa green. i was closer to him than any of my siblings were, right up until the end of his life. it makes me sad, sometimes, that no one else got to know him like i did-- not as the stern, vaguely-scary version of him they saw, but the mellowed, sweet man he became later in life. the man who played my little ponies with me and took me to feed the ducks (wearing his green cardigan and fedora, which i remember still, clear as day). the man who would sit on the sofa with me and ask me to talk about god with him. the man who shared his favorite sandwich with me.
that's why i really love chicken sandwiches-- not because of their actual culinary value, but because they remind me of all of that. because, with every single bite, there's a memory. and that's why, for those bad days, i keep that little can in my cupboard, so that i can tear the paper off and remember that things are okay after all.
26.1.10
recipe: tomato soup.
sunday night, i tried a recipe for spaghetti alla puttanesca. (let's not worry about the etymology of that name right now.) it was my first encounter with puttanesca, as well as my first encounter with those salty little sons of the sea, anchovies. now, i'm sure it was a well-written recipe, and i'm sure it was a tasty dish for fans of puttanesca. i'm also sure that i am not one of those fans. the tomatoes, garlic, and greek olives were wonderful. i'm probably going to make a sauce made of just that in the future. it was the anchovies, i think. and the capers. oh, lord, too many capers. my tongue felt as though it was being assaulted. too bitter, too salty. not for me.
the title of this post, however, is "tomato soup." so let's move on to the soup.
the puttanesca recipe called for part of a can of tomato paste. (well... a whole can, but i split the recipe because i am cooking for one, after all.) i hate letting things go to waste in my fridge, so i was determined to find something delicious to do with that tomato paste. and oh, i found it. how i found it. tomato soup so good i was a little in love by the time i finished my bowl. pomme d'amour indeed. and one of the best things about this dish is that i already had everything i needed to make it, save for the fire-roasted tomatoes. (which are $.79 a can at target, by the way.)
the title of this post, however, is "tomato soup." so let's move on to the soup.
the puttanesca recipe called for part of a can of tomato paste. (well... a whole can, but i split the recipe because i am cooking for one, after all.) i hate letting things go to waste in my fridge, so i was determined to find something delicious to do with that tomato paste. and oh, i found it. how i found it. tomato soup so good i was a little in love by the time i finished my bowl. pomme d'amour indeed. and one of the best things about this dish is that i already had everything i needed to make it, save for the fire-roasted tomatoes. (which are $.79 a can at target, by the way.)
plans: brenda + food = luv 4-evah
one of my goals right now is to develop a healthier relationship with food-- the key word here being "relationship." i want to be involved with my food. instead of having a craving for something and turning the the cupboard or freezer to grab a quick-fix convenience food, i want to create something. i want to satisfy every aspect of that craving, not just taste. i want to smell the food cooking. i want to touch the ingredients and measure them in my palms and feel the grit of kosher salt in my fingers. i want to see everything coming together just right. and then, when i finally do taste it, i know it will absolutely satisfy that craving because everything that is in that food i put there. it was literally made to suit me.
the rewards? fewer preservatives and what-is-that ingredients, a greater appreciation for what i eat, a boost in creativity, and a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction every evening when i finally flop down on the couch. a greater feeling of satisfaction will hopefully lead to less need to snack. a one-dish attack of custom-fit flavor will fix every craving instead of needing different things to cure the need for salty, sweet, and noodles (my cravings of choice).
the difficulties? "oh my gosh, i just spent eight hours trying to write this stupid project at work. screw you, raw chicken breast. pass me the instant gratification."
the rewards? fewer preservatives and what-is-that ingredients, a greater appreciation for what i eat, a boost in creativity, and a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction every evening when i finally flop down on the couch. a greater feeling of satisfaction will hopefully lead to less need to snack. a one-dish attack of custom-fit flavor will fix every craving instead of needing different things to cure the need for salty, sweet, and noodles (my cravings of choice).
the difficulties? "oh my gosh, i just spent eight hours trying to write this stupid project at work. screw you, raw chicken breast. pass me the instant gratification."
31.12.09
disclaimers
first of all, a disclaimer:
even though i am a writer/editor, i do not generally believe in using capital letters. this is because i am also a bit of a graphic designer and think that lowercase letters are, pretty much without exception, more attractive and feel as though you probably know when sentences begin and end due to the use of punctuation. capitals are used purely for effect.
second of all, another disclaimer:
i have no idea what this blog is going to be about. none. but that's the exciting part, isn't it? read this blog! you never know what you're going to get! (if you insist on knowing, i suspect it will be about books, movies, cooking, and general ramblings, so there you go. now you've ruined the surprise. i hope you're happy.)
even though i am a writer/editor, i do not generally believe in using capital letters. this is because i am also a bit of a graphic designer and think that lowercase letters are, pretty much without exception, more attractive and feel as though you probably know when sentences begin and end due to the use of punctuation. capitals are used purely for effect.
second of all, another disclaimer:
i have no idea what this blog is going to be about. none. but that's the exciting part, isn't it? read this blog! you never know what you're going to get! (if you insist on knowing, i suspect it will be about books, movies, cooking, and general ramblings, so there you go. now you've ruined the surprise. i hope you're happy.)
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