Thanks to the spring musical, I haven't had a free evening for baking in almost two weeks and it's starting to take its toll on my mental health. It's not as though working with the Stage Rats is without its own rewards, and working alone late at night after they leave also has some spiritual benefits. But as much as I love the smell of sawdust, it can't compare with the aroma of caramel pecan cinnamon rolls or tomato basil focaccia or even just sourdough starter. As I wrote in Bake and Be Blessed, bread baking is the original aromatherapy, but better because you can't eat a lighted candle.
Of course, kneading dough is also therapeutic, in part because it involves some fairly vigorous physical effort, and because of the kind of tactile sensuality of the dough itself. There's a distinct pleasure in feeling the warm dough dough go from slightly lumpy, slack and sticky to smooth and elastic. It's a transformation that never fails to enchant me, and makes me fall in love with baking all over again.
There's a communal aspect of baking that I've been missing lately as well: I genuinely enjoy putting bread on the table for my confreres. I like choosing a recipe I know is a community favorite, or perhaps trying something new I think will surprise and delight my monastic family. I like seeing each monk choosing thick or thin slices, waiting in line for the toasters at breakfast, spreading butter and honey or raspberry jam. I especially enjoy seeing an empty bread board covered with crumbs, except for when I'm late to breakfast and have to make do with store-bought bread!
Truth be told, I'm also feeling some guilt about not baking. Last year I offered an item in our Academy's annual dinner auction: bread every time I bake. One of our school families bought it, and although they've gotten plenty of bread and rolls this year, I feel as though they're not getting their money's worth recently. Guess I'll have to take part of Saturday morning to rectify that, both for their sake and mine.
Of course, kneading dough is also therapeutic, in part because it involves some fairly vigorous physical effort, and because of the kind of tactile sensuality of the dough itself. There's a distinct pleasure in feeling the warm dough dough go from slightly lumpy, slack and sticky to smooth and elastic. It's a transformation that never fails to enchant me, and makes me fall in love with baking all over again.
There's a communal aspect of baking that I've been missing lately as well: I genuinely enjoy putting bread on the table for my confreres. I like choosing a recipe I know is a community favorite, or perhaps trying something new I think will surprise and delight my monastic family. I like seeing each monk choosing thick or thin slices, waiting in line for the toasters at breakfast, spreading butter and honey or raspberry jam. I especially enjoy seeing an empty bread board covered with crumbs, except for when I'm late to breakfast and have to make do with store-bought bread!
Truth be told, I'm also feeling some guilt about not baking. Last year I offered an item in our Academy's annual dinner auction: bread every time I bake. One of our school families bought it, and although they've gotten plenty of bread and rolls this year, I feel as though they're not getting their money's worth recently. Guess I'll have to take part of Saturday morning to rectify that, both for their sake and mine.
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