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 the rhythmic motion of kneading the dough until it became smooth and elastic. The most magical part was the wait, as the dough slowly doubled in size, filling the kitchen with a faint, yeasty aroma. When it finally came out of the oven, golden and crackling, the sense of accomplishment was immense. It was not a perfect loaf, a bit dense in the crumb, but it was mine, and the taste of warm, fresh bread I had made with my own hands was incomparable to anything from a store.
I like making bread because it is a grounding and rewarding process. It connects me to a fundamental human tradition and forces a slower, more mindful pace in a fast-paced world. The act of working with my hands, feeling the dough transform from separate ingredients into a living, breathing entity, is deeply satisfying. There is a quiet joy in the routine of mixing, kneading, and waiting, a practice in patience that culminates in a tangible, nourishing result. The final reward is not just the delicious end product, but the entire sensory journey—the smell that fills the house, the warmth of the oven, and the shared pleasure of breaking bread with others.