Making Things Is Inherently Human

Keep baking bread, honey, and I'll keep eating it

March 3rd’s bake; I love the flour rings from the proofing basket.

In February, we stopped buying bread from the store. The weekend prior, I was in the mood to bake. I pulled down one of our bread books, the Dutch oven, and plastic bread-making tubs from their respective shelves to make my favorite bread recipe, Ken Forkish’s Saturday white bread. Except it was a Sunday.

This particular recipe is timestamped for easy baking. At 9:30 a.m. I mixed flour and water. A half-hour later I added the salt and the yeast and made the first fold. A few steps later and it was time for rest. At 4:15 p.m., it went in the oven. Forty-five minutes later, the crust came out crackly and tan, just like I hoped it would. I sliced myself the rounded end piece and lathered butter on the soft and steaming crumb, not without a sprinkle of flakey salt. I went back for seconds and thirds. The next few days, we ate thick toast piled with scrambled eggs and Mama Lil’s peppers, and hunks dunked in creamy tomato soup until only flour dust was left.

Bread making has always been my thing, but this time, Steve took an interest. The following weekend, I showed him how to weigh the flour, yeast, salt, and water on our scale, then mix and fold and proof and poke until it was ready for baking. On the third weekend, he did it by himself. The loaves turned out a little flat and pale but still good, and I reassured him that it would take time to get a feel for it. He tried again the next weekend, and they came out round and crispy and delicious. Every weekend since then, and sometimes even on weekdays, Steve has made a loaf or two. He flips to page 153 in the book Breadsong, mailed by his dad, who sent me a Dutch oven all those years ago. And then Steve begins the process of mixing with his hands, letting the ragged ball rest overnight in his office (the warmest room in the house), and tucking the boule in the oven the next morning. Our house gets really warm and smells like a bakery on bread-baking days.

Also apparently a March 3rd bake; I think that means we made Ken Forkish’s Saturday white bread, which yields two toasty loaves

Over these past few months, we’ve probably saved no more than $100 and a dozen plastic bags by not buying bread from the store. The sourdough loaf at Trader Joe’s was our go to, and we even sometimes splurged at Ken’s Artisan Bakery (get the brownie) and Starter Bread (get the olive twist). We could just keep doing that—grabbing a loaf while at the grocery store rather than make it ourselves (at this point, Steve has taken over bread-baking duties). We could have toast for breakfast on days we wanted to have toast instead of having steel cut oats. But it’s not money or convenience that keeps us from the store-bought bread.

“Why do you keep making bread?” I asked Steve tonight.

“Because it’s beautiful,” he said. “It turns out different each time, and it’s creating something with my hands. It’s the one tangible thing I make every few days.”

For me, the simple act of making things, like food and clothing, with my own two hands reminds me I’m human. Not a robot. Not a capitalist cog. Not in a simulation. It brings me closer to the things I consume and slows me down enough to appreciate how they’re made. Because I’m the one making them. Waiting for the bread to rise, anticipating what a garment might look like on my body, hoping that the seeds will turn into sprouts—each of these resists the instant gratification we’ve become so accustomed to. Sometimes I wish the process of making things by hand was faster. The floating shelves in the kitchen still aren’t done and neither is the desk I planned on building by now. They would be done had I purchased them from stores. But then again, I wouldn’t know how to edge band birch plywood or create a near perfect 90-degree corner—or stitch a sleeve to a bodice or score the skin of a dough ball. It takes patience.

Today, I ate the last slice of our homemade bread. I broiled it in the oven (because our toaster broke and we haven’t replaced it yet and probably never will) until the edges browned. I layered on ripe slices of avocados and curly microgreens, plus a squeeze of olive oil and a few shakes of chili flakes and salt. I ate it as slowly as I could bare. And the world around me slowed too, and I felt human again.

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