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 returned an hour later to find a puffy, doubled mass. Shaping it was awkward and my slashing was timid, but the smell that filled the house as it baked was pure, warm comfort. The final loaf was dense at the bottom with a slightly thick crust, a far cry from a bakery’s perfection, but it was mine. Cutting a warm slice and spreading butter that melted instantly was a profound satisfaction, a simple, tangible result of my own effort.
I enjoy the process of making bread because it is a grounding and patient craft. It forces a slower pace, governed by the silent, biological clock of fermentation. There is a deep satisfaction in working with my hands, feeling the texture of the dough evolve from shaggy and sticky to smooth and elastic. The act of kneading is meditative, a rhythmic process that clears the mind. I find immense pleasure in the alchemy of it all—transforming just four basic ingredients into something so much greater than the sum of its parts. The final reward is not just the delicious, warm bread, but the quiet confidence that comes from creating a fundamental sustenance.