The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of white sandwich bread. I remember carefully measuring the flour, watching the yeast foam in warm water, and kneading the dough until my arms ached. The kitchen was a mess of flour, and I was not entirely confident the dense ball of dough would rise. When it finally went into the oven, the smell that filled my apartment was incredible. Pulling that golden, crackling loaf from the oven felt like a small miracle, a tangible result of patience and effort. It was not perfect, but it was mine, and it was delicious.
I like making bread because it is a grounding and rewarding process. It forces me to slow down and work with my hands, providing a quiet focus that contrasts with the digital noise of everyday life. There is a deep satisfaction in the transformation of simple ingredients—flour, water, yeast, and salt—into something so fundamental and nourishing. The act of creation is both a science and an art, and sharing the warm, finished loaf with others is a simple, profound joy. It connects me to a timeless tradition and provides a deep sense of accomplishment.