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 process was surprisingly physical and immersive, pulling my focus away from screens and into the tactile world of flour and dough. When the loaf finally emerged from the oven, golden and fragrant, the sense of accomplishment was immense. It was not a perfect loaf by any means, slightly dense and a bit misshapen, but it was my creation, and it tasted better than any store-bought bread I had ever eaten.
I like making bread because it is a grounding and rewarding practice. The methodical nature of following the steps, from mixing to proofing to baking, provides a comforting structure. There is a deep satisfaction in the alchemy of transforming simple, basic ingredients into a nourishing and delicious staple. The process demands patience and attention, forcing a quiet mindfulness that I find therapeutic. Ultimately, the act of creating something tangible and wholesome with my own hands, and then sharing it with others, brings a profound sense of purpose and connection that I deeply value.