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 it would work. When the dough finally rose under a clean kitchen towel, it felt like a small miracle. The true reward came from the oven, filling the house with an aroma that was both comforting and deeply satisfying. That first imperfect, slightly dense loaf tasted better than any store-bought bread because it was a product of my own effort and learning.
I enjoy the process of making because it is a tangible form of creation and a welcome respite from the digital world. There is a profound satisfaction in starting with raw, simple ingredients and transforming them into something nourishing and complete through my own hands. The process demands focus and patience, pulling me into the present moment where the only things that matter are the feel of the dough or the sound of the simmer. This act of making, whether it is bread, a piece of furniture, or a garden, provides a deep sense of accomplishment and a quiet joy that is both grounding and fulfilling.