Ferment

First, imagine your grandmotherwho loved bread telling you notto get caught up in the exactnessof the recipe which will goagainst what the chef taught youwhen you were trying to measure.3 grams, a sixteenth of a teaspoon,and you thought this is a pinchas you lifted and replaced eachweight on the scale. Behind youthe dough smelled ripe like beerin those early mornings of baking schoolthe machines getting lostin fold after fold, the ribbon arm of doughflexible as a twist tie. It is the repetitive motionthat keeps you alive—sardines, a glass of champagne,falling asleep at 3 pm after work in your whitesforgetting to dot the galaxy of raspberry spitin Morse code across your sleeves. The bouleround, pulled taught, flexed like flesh and muscle—holy alive with breath or excessexpanding like the universe but in your handsan illusion of control. It’s OK not to timethe kneading. Best to do it until you begin totire because the dough responds to this.It likes the gentle heat of your handsthe pull, tuck, and snap of applause—years gone by and yet here you aresomehow, flour on the counter, flour on the floor,small scabs of dough mark your palms and youare both elastic and everything

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