I went to bed last night with a wickedly painful sore throat and woke up with not only a painfully sore throat but also total congestion. You know that far away feeling you get when you're really stuffed up? Like you're going through the day in a fog? Nevertheless I promised I'd make French bread this week. I'd forgotten how the scent of baking bread can fill up a house and make it seem so cozy and warm. Plus that first piece, still warm from the oven with butter melting into it, pure heaven.
TodaynI looked at the ingredients and wondered how on earth it occurred to someone to put all of these things together. Baking is a science and an art. It appeals to my sense of order and my sense of creativity. I know that when I follow the recipe, the end product will be pretty close to what my mum made when I was little. But there is still an element of discovery. The potential that I can do something new, bring some change to the recipe that will make it even better.
I've never made this particular recipe before, so the loaves aren't straight and even. But the magic of baking hangs in the air anyway. Making this flu I have seem insignificant.
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