I used to bake bread, especially on cold wintry days. The smell of yeast had a way of making the slow waking sun tolerable. Sticky dough made pliable from kneading—flour, water, flour, water—then rest. Watched it rise in the warm oven, a miracle every time, rise high so that I might punch it down. When the bread was baked the aroma wafted down the hallway into other people’s apartments. I shared my bread with my neighbors.
Somehow a change of lifestyle brought bread making to a stop. The process is too slow. The attention span required is too long. Neighbors are not down the hall but across the street. They can’t smell the good smell.
Not that there is a lack of good bread in the bakeries. They are fanciful, delicious and available in many complex flavors, far superior than the simple wheat or white breads that I made. Only that something is amiss, and I don’t think about it too much, except once in a great while.
