Sometimes you just knead

I remember the first time I made bread. I was a kid, junior-high-aged. We had gone to visit this family who lived in the middle of nowhere in an old farmhouse. I didn't think it was so terrible that they had an outhouse; I found everything about their lifestyle wonderful. The woman made her own bread, and she was in the kitchen, wearing one of those wooly thrift shop sweaters and she cut us all slices. And I remember that it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten.

With this imprint, I decided that I too, wanted to be like that. Except, I didn't want to live in the middle of nowhere with no money or facilities (I don't even know if they had electricity) or even wear those sweaters because I found them scratchy and confining. So all that was really left was ... the bread.

My mother always let me do whatever I wanted in the kitchen. If I said I wanted to make something, she was all for it. She didn't care if I made huge messes or even ruined pans. With that kind of freedom, believe me, I made my share of messes and ruined a number of pans! So, I pulled out the yellow cookbook (not sure whether it was Betty Crocker or not, no, that one was red) and looked for a bread recipe. Sounded easy enough. I followed the recipe like a religion, and because I didn't know what rising was, I didn't really know what to look for. My first loaf of bread was really dangerous. It was so hard you could have killed someone with it.

I tried a different recipe. You see, when something doesn't come out right, then I become obsessed. And I was obsessed with making the perfect loaf of bread. Each subsequent loaf was a teeny bit more edible than the original "brick," and we would all sit around and spread massive amounts of butter on the loaf out of the oven because if we waited, it would grow hard as a rock! It wasn't good -- but it was hot and chewy and fresh.

Fast forward a number of years and I was in my own house and my baby was there and this domesticity took me over and I remember that woman in her house in the middle of nowhere. The bread! It was time to make the bread again. I was fully into making my own baby food and the idea of making all of our food was so sexy. So ... I decided to figure out what I'd been doing wrong all along. I had grown to realize that my recipes came out better if I didn't actually follow the recipe. So why not try that with the bread recipes? I had become an intuitive cook over time, and so I decided to become one with the dough.

I can feel it as though it was right now. Standing in front of my butcher block counter, a big blob of dough before me, Hallie hanging off the counter in her little seat (it attached to the counter) eating something and amusing herself with crayons and paper. The dough was everywhere. I'd used exactly the amount of flour the recipe had called for (and said "up to,") so I couldn't use more. Could I?

I started pouring flour onto the counter and kneading the dough. More flour, more flour, more flour. I kneaded (the recipe had said it would be done in five minutes) but I could tell the dough wasn't ready. I could feel this thing take me over, this feeling that I had been here before. I knew how to make bread. Deep within my DNA was the formula for bread making. I kneaded and kneaded until sweat broke out on my brow. It felt amazing. It felt ... so right. And then, the dough changed. It went from this sticky mass to the most beautiful, light and satiny being. It felt alive. It was the most incredible experience.

I put the flour in an oiled bowl, covered it with a tea towel and waited for it to rise. But our house was cold. The dough sort of rised, and it was surely the best loaf of bread I'd ever made. But I knew it could be better.

I experimented more and more, learned how to use the stove to create a warm environment for the rising dough and when I'd reached the point of light, fluffy loafs, I had to stop. Because I couldn't stop eating it! It was delicious. But it didn't last very long (it would get hard) and it suddenly seemed like a lot of work for a product we didn't really need.

But every time I make something that requires me to knead -- I am always drawn into this zone. It makes me wonder if I was a pioneer woman in another life. It feels so incredibly natural and right. As though I've done it a million times before. I know exactly when the dough is right (and believe me, it is NEVER anywhere near what the directions have explained!)

Today I am making an onion tart. I think it may literally have been years since I last kneaded dough. I had forgotten how amazing it is -- how it makes me feel.

Is it possible that I was born to knead?