My Life as a Loaf of Bread

Have you ever made bread from scratch? I’m talking the get-your-hands-in-there-and-knead-it kind from scratch.

If so, you will understand. If not... perhaps you are not a loaf of bread.

When you start making bread, it’s just water and yeast and a little sugar. That in itself is enough to make your house smell amazing. Simple, sweet, the beginnings of a good thing. Add in whatever else you want for flavor and texture, and then it’s time for flour.

The first cup or two mixes in quickly, turning the liquid into a batter. Then the going gets a little tougher, your mixer might start to complain. And eventually you have a lump of dough that is too firm for a mixer but too sticky to shape.

That’s where I was for a long time.

I’m a sensitive girl. Always have been, hopefully always will be. Sensitivity is a beautiful thing. But extreme sensitivity is not always the best thing long-term.

With the dough in this stage, it smells good, looks good, tastes good... but you can’t really handle it. It’s sticky. It gets all over your hands and requires perpetual flour dusting to make sure it doesn’t stick to your work surface.

I was functional. Looked fine, was even palatable to those around me. But if anyone touched me, pieces of me would come off. I remember feeling like every small hurt was a razor blade. Tender to others, yes. Unsullied by pain, yes. But also unaccustomed to pain to the point of not being sure how to handle it.

Now I’ll be the first to say that it’s better to have a loaf be too sticky and work in a little more flour than to have it dry and dense and a door-stop impersonator. But the point still stands: sticky dough sticks to everything.

Looking back on the last few years, I feel like I’ve gone from that ultra sticky lump of dough to a more manageable lump of dough. I’ve had some flour worked in. Yeah, that requires a few bumps and bruises and getting pushed around a bit. But I feel more workable now. I’m still tender - properly formed dough is soft and pliable and promises to rise into a fluffy loaf of gluten goodness. But I don’t stick to everything. I don’t feel in danger of leaving pieces of me on everyone that comes near.

I’m developing a backbone, but I didn’t replace it with a yardstick.

I can shed water, but that doesn’t mean I never get near water.

I’m soft, but I’m not going to stick to everything.

And that feels like progress.