The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of whole wheat. I remember the feeling of the cool flour dusting my hands and the patient waiting as the yeast bloomed in its warm water bath. Kneading the dough was a surprising workout, a rhythmic push and fold that transformed a shaggy mixture into a smooth, elastic ball. The most magical part was the rise, watching the dough double in size, breathing and alive under a damp cloth. When it finally came out of the oven, the crust was crackly and the interior was impossibly soft. That first imperfect, slightly dense loaf tasted better than any store-bought bread because I had created it from simple, elemental ingredients.
I like making bread because it is a grounding and rewarding process. In a world of instant results, baking bread demands patience and attention to the slow, natural rhythms of fermentation and proofing. The act of working with my hands to create something tangible and nourishing provides a deep sense of accomplishment. There is a profound comfort in the ritual of it, from the initial mixing to the final, fragrant bake that fills the entire house with a sense of warmth and welcome. It connects me to a fundamental human tradition and allows me to produce a simple, honest food that brings people together.