Tales from the Shoebox.

On Cari’s recommendation, I checked out The Tassajara Bread Book from the library.  Because I am a dirty hippie and want to make my own bread.  Well, I hate touching anything gooey or sticky or raw-feeling.  But this is a hands-on book, and I don’t know enough about baking, much less baking bread, to go adapting things for my stand mixer or the bread machine that Sara D. is being nice enough to let me borrow.  So I mixed up a batch of banana challah bread starter, let it rise (and rise it did OMG it got huge), and set about to step 2 of the process: add enough flour so you can knead the dough.  There is not enough soap in the world to get the icky out of me right now.  So here’s me, in the kitchen, trying to avoid barfing all over the nice dough, Boogermonkey in my face asking “watchadooin mama? makin’ bread?” every 3 seconds, and Gurglebutt decides now would be a good time to start screaming.  While I have dough hands.  Not just hands in the dough, but dough sticking to every possible part of my hands.  I am so glad I took my ring off.  Anxiety attack waiting to happen, I’m trying deep cleansing breaths.  Gurglebutt calms himself (ah, the power of the vibrating seat), and Boogermonkey finally agrees to go ride his tricycle on the porch.  My shoulders are aching and I keep adding more and more and more flour in a vain attempt to make the dough smooth as I knead & fold it.  I know I should have kneaded it another 5-10 minutes, but 7 was all I could handle.  The first rise is nearly done & I can see the damp towel bulging from where the dough is rising against it, so I did something right.  It was stretchy & forming bands, so I know the gluten has formed properly.  But never again.  The stand mixer is my best friend, and the bread machine is even better because then I don’t have to turn on the oven, but apparently a lot of the recipes in the bread machine user’s manual don’t turn out so well, so I have to go hunting for better ones.  Because bread is good, and healthy bread is better.