Today, two months and one day shy of 25, I finally became an adult. Or so I thought about eight hours ago.
The day started well: my shiny, brand-new American passport came in the mail. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but oh boy, it is a symbol of so much growing up. For one, I am a one-week-old American. I was naturalized last Tuesday and I'm sure something has changed inside of me since I was sworn in eight days ago. As if that weren't enough, I got that passport, and my citizen-status, all on my very own, not piggy-backing on my parents as I would have if I were a mere teenager. Quite grown-up of me, wouldn't you say?
Next, I made a very difficult grown-up decision: UC Berkeley, here I come! I see this less as a fulfillment of my childhood dream of being a California girl - complete with mussed up surfer hair, neon flip flops and a flippy West Coast accent to match - and more of a super responsible first step into the rest of my life. Super responsible. I swear.
And finally, there was the bread. Only adults make bread, right? You never see little boys and girls standing on chairs over a ball of dough. Mixing pancake batter? Sure. But kneading bread? I think my point is clear.
I've always considered bread one of my callings - eating bread, that is. I like sweet, sour, chewy, grainy. I like it warm and crusty, cool and stale at the point just before fuzzy little creatures start to call it home. I like it with melty Plugrá, goopy Nutella, and pretty much any kind of cheese. Hell, I like it plain, and I'll fight anyone willing to mess with me in order to get the nubby end of a French baguette.
But baking bread was aways another matter completely. Honestly, I thought it was something only done by "big people:" People that were taller than me and had darker circles under their eyes than me. People who had come to the conclusion that they're too old for birthday parties (gifts and cake included). People who knew the difference between "adobo" and "saffron." (I still don't think I should have been blamed for seasoning my grilled cheese sandwich with the the contents of a reappropriated, mislabeled spice bottle.) The big people would make the bread and I, very happily, would pick every last crumb off my plate with my fingertips.
Last night when, just home from a too long day at work (if that's not a grown-up thought, I don't know what is!), I caught sight of a recipe that had been hanging on my fridge all winter: Jim Lahey's No-Knead Bread. I had had the brilliant idea of serving up fresh bread over the holidays, but my enthusiasm dwindled quickly when I discovered I'd need a heavy cast-iron pot. I didn't have one.
Then, in February, my no-nonsense cousin Louisa caught wind of my troubles. Two days later I had a pot. A big, beautiful, candy apple red Le Creuset look-alike. I was thrilled. I couldn't stop taking pictures of it. But still, no bread. I guess I just didn't have that other calling.
Until last night.
I know a lot's been said about the recipe since its debut in 2006, and even in the past few weeks there seems to have been a renewed interest in Lahey and his home-baked delights. (Here, and sort of here and here.) While the recollection of Pim's "No flavor!" warning filled my heart with icy fear when I scanned the recipe last night, I felt I had to follow through should the calling fall silent once again. It was time to grow up, I thought, flavor be damned!*
The dough came together very easily before bed and 20 hours later, I arrived home smug and big person-y, ready to forge ahead. I took a peek into my plastic-covered bowl and inside was just a lump. A very lumpy lump covered in bubbles, looking like it had contracted some kind of horrible, open-sored skin disease.
First, I panicked. Then came the profanity. I couldn't help it. I felt so betrayed. I mean, look at it!
Finally, I looked at the recipe. The bubbles and lumpiness were normal, desirable even. I calmed down and, red in the face from embarrassment, apologized to my lump, who by this point I was calling Bear. Suddenly, I didn't feel like a grown-up anymore.
When Bear came out of the oven, he was beautiful. Brown and golden all at once, a hard crust hiding a dense, chewy center that, lo and behold, had flavor in leaps and bounds. (I used whole wheat flour instead of the all-purpose listed in the original recipe.)
As I sliced Bear up, I couldn't help but think that being a big person is overrated. After all, it's hard to win at hide and seek in the backyard if you're too tall. And there is nothing, nothing good about under-eye circles. And I know how to identify saffron now.
And and and I have no desire whatsoever to say goodbye to birthday parties, gifts or cake (ahem, July 1), and no amount of growing up, or bread-baking, is going to take that away from me.
*Flavor should never ever actually be damned.
In a large bowl combine flour, yeast and salt. Add 1 5/8 cups water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.
Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it with a little more flour and fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest about 15 minutes.
Using just enough flour to keep dough from sticking to work surface or to your fingers, gently and quickly shape dough into a ball. Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour, wheat bran or cornmeal; put dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour, bran or cornmeal. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.
