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 required a patience I did not know I possessed. When the golden loaf finally emerged from the oven, filling the kitchen with its unmistakable aroma, the sense of accomplishment was profound. It was not a perfect loaf, a little dense on one side, but it was real, tangible, and I had created it from simple ingredients. That first successful attempt unlocked a new understanding of food as a craft, not just a commodity.
I enjoy making bread because it is a grounding and therapeutic process. In a world of instant gratification, baking bread forces you to slow down and work on the dough’s schedule, not your own. The rhythmic motion of kneading is meditative, a quiet time to focus solely on the transformation of the ingredients in your hands. There is a deep satisfaction in nurturing a living thing like a sourdough starter and watching it grow. Ultimately, I love the act of creation and the ability to share something warm, wholesome, and made with my own effort, providing a simple, fundamental comfort to myself and others.