anticipation
hexapetala
Half of bread making is waiting. The other half is important: sifting, stirring, kneading, shaping, heating—but the waiting is the key. You have to wait twice: once before the dough has been sculpted, by your own warm floury hands, into its final form, and once after. Benching, the first wait is called, a name that carries with it a funny picture: that that lump of dough you covered in a damp kitchen towel is raring to go, that it would rather be out there on the field kicking around a ball than sitting here, but that it must be patient until its turn comes. Of course it is you who are impatient, not the dough. You who must find it in yourself to let others work while you watch.
The second wait is called proofing. You both have something to prove, you and the dough. The dough must show it has what it takes to rise to the occasion. You must show the work you did, before all this waiting, was done right—has given the dough what it needs to grow into a puffy cloud of sweet, warm, steaming life.
Half of bread making is waiting, and what you do while you wait matters. Will you sit watching, like a reverent? Will you have a cup of tea by the bread’s side, keeping it company? Will you call your sister and tell her about the bread?
You know—I’ve just thought. You could take out a camera.
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