The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of white sandwich bread. I remember carefully measuring the flour, feeling the cool yeast dissolve in the water, and the initial resistance of the dough as I began to knead. My arms grew tired, and I was uncertain if the smooth, elastic windowpane would ever appear. The waiting was the hardest part, watching the clock and hoping the dough would rise. When it finally went into the oven, the aroma that filled my kitchen was unlike anything I had experienced from a store-bought bag. Pulling that golden, imperfect loaf from the oven was a profound moment of creation, a simple yet tangible result of my own effort.
I enjoy the process of making bread because it is a grounding and meditative practice. The rhythmic motion of kneading provides a physical release, while the predictable, yet living, nature of the fermentation demands patience and attention. There is a deep satisfaction in working with my hands to transform a few basic ingredients into something nourishing and fundamental. I like that it connects me to a timeless tradition and allows me to create something real and wholesome for myself and others. The final reward, that warm slice with a pat of butter, is a simple pleasure that feels earned, making the entire process deeply fulfilling.