The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of white sandwich bread. I remember carefully measuring the flour and yeast, watching the dough hook of my stand mixer do its work. The most magical part was the first rise, when I placed the bowl in a warm spot and waited. Peeking under the towel an hour later to see the dough doubled in size, soft and puffy, felt like a small miracle. The kitchen filled with the warm, comforting smell of yeast as it baked, and pulling that golden-brown loaf from the oven was a profound moment of accomplishment. It was far from perfect, a little dense in the crumb, but it was my creation, and the taste was incomparable to anything from a store.
I enjoy the process of making bread because it is a grounding and therapeutic practice. In a world of instant gratification, baking bread demands patience and presence. It connects me to a fundamental human tradition and forces me to slow down, to pay attention to the feel of the dough and the rhythm of the rises. There is a deep satisfaction in transforming a few simple ingredients—flour, water, yeast, and salt—into something so nourishing and complex. The entire process, from the initial mixing to the final slice, is a tangible result of effort and care, and sharing a warm loaf with others is a simple, genuine form of connection.