I've really gotten into a bread kick. Maybe it's because I've come ever closer to perfecting the ratio of all purpose to whole wheat flour; the amount of olive oil or walnut oil, lightly kneaded into the bread; the time that a pan of steaming water should be left in the oven as the dough bakes to crusty perfection.
My favorite is a rosemary-thyme-black pepper loaf. It's crusty on the outside, with just enough crumb formation, while the inside remains soft, chewy, with pockets where air from the yeast gently massaged the innards of the loaf. I love this bread with butter; I love this bread with homemade blueberry or nectarine-basil preserves; I love this bread with melted Fontina cheese; I love this bread sopping up whatever sauce fell delicately off the pasta in my bowl. But I also came to the realization that it might be time to try other breads. It was the bread, it was me, and "me" was ready to move on.
This past Sunday was damp, cool, and overcast, not like a typical Sunday in DC during the summer, that typical Sunday being wretchedly hot, followed by massive, pitch-black clouds, thunder, lightning, and torrential downpour. (Actually, that sounds like everyday this summer!) I wanted to go to the mall, but Mike convinced me that it would be nice to just stay in and relax all day. Of course, I was not content with simply sitting on the computer, in front of the TV, eating chips and salsa all day.
To me, relaxation means kitchen time. I would much rather get my hands dirty, elbow deep in tomatoes and olive oil, than sit in front of the TV watching sports center reruns, eating cups of granola, pretending that by eating extra granola I am being extra healthy. I baked three loaves of bread. All three bursting with a different flavor, a different season, a different personality.
Nectarine, rolling in cinnamon and nutmeg, is ethereal, and, perhaps with a few refinements, something beyond spiritual. It brings about the calling of autumn, mingling with the orange flesh of summer, fresh on ones lips with each bite.
The tart bite of cranberries floats around the herbal scent of rosemary and thyme, with a touch of honey asking for sweeter things to come. It evokes the flavors of a summer herb garden, bushy and overrun, practically begging to be picked, to be inhaled.
That same herb garden is full of basil leaves, reminiscent of Genoa. They are a ripe green, green with jealousy of stories of basil consorting with Parmesan, and garlic, olive oil and nuts, to form a sauce that hugs a shapely pasta. But this time, they will be deconstructed, separate, but equally stuffed into a ball of well-oiled dough.
Ok, so I may be an ocean's away from a career in food writing. I am no Ruth Reichl, Anthony Bourdain, or Michael Ruhlman. But I know I love to bake bread, and I enjoy describing the food I make. Cooking is full of imagery. Moreover, it is an implicitly sensual experience, as food will entice you with its taste, the superficial appeal of its colors, the way its flesh yields to your grip, however slack or firm.
From Left to Right: Deconstructed Pesto Bread, Rosemary-Thyme Cranberry Bread, Cinnamon-Nutmeg Nectarine Bread
