The Smell of Bread

I love the smell of bread fresh from the oven. The warm smell of spices and cooked yeast. It feels like home, which is silly. My childhood home was never filled with fresh baked bread or homemade cakes. It was a loud place with too many children and angry adults. But, this home, the one I have created is full of bread, laughter, art, noise, reading, playing, and children making music. This home feels like a place that baked bread belongs, and I feel like a person who bakes.

I am a person who bakes. I love baking. I love the way dough changes from sticky to bouncy. The way shape takes form over time and bakes to be fluffy and crunchy. I love the contradictions in baking. Recently, I stretched my baking fingers and made croissants for the first time ever. They were hard, but they were delicious. Something lovely happens in the process of folding and pounding, something that creates layers of butter wrapped in a crunchy thin shell.

Five years ago, when I first started baking sourdough (and gave up on baking sourdough), I would have told you that bread was where I stopped. I had failed at layered fluffy biscuits twice and didn’t want to make hard flat biscuits again. But, now my house smells like spice bread, and one croissant lies waiting for jam. Every meal I make has a homemade baked good to go with it: fry bread, biscuits, rolls, croissants, tortillas, naan. I’ve made so many things and try to keep that smell of home.

Food has community in it. I find that inside every roll there is someone to share it with. Every scone can bring a story from a friend. Food has always been a way for people to gather, and my home smells inviting for company.