The morning birds sang boldly all week and the earlier sunrise made everything seem warmer even though the temperatures remained at arctic levels .  Animal tracks appeared near the backyard tree and were scattered  in the snow banks bordering the driveway.  Spring had stretched her arms and began her rise from a long nap.  Humans,  however, had not yet shaken their frigid winter blues.  This week they carried nothing but bad news my way.  From my former colleagues’  concerns over their  jobs being outsourced to India,  to news of an old college roommate’s husband taking his own life, and to being told confidentially that my own company had created a large severance account,  the week brought a series of facts I would have rather not have known.   I gravitated to popping my vitamin D, listening to the birds, squinting happily at the sun, and throwing my spare energies into cooking.  For obvious reasons, the challenge of making something to satisfy the soul seemed like a great distraction.

In my sunny kitchen, bread making was on the agenda.  What better smell than bread wafting through the house.   I knew I was in trouble when  the flour spun far too long around the mixer hook without clumping together.  More water was added.  A little more water was added.  More spinning then finally the clump reluctantly came together.  My mixer began to fight the dough, faltering, moaning, and spinning  with a groan.  I couldn’t be certain if it was my machine smoking or a haze of flour now covering everything in a two foot radius but something was not working well.   The bowl rocked back and forth, spinning off the base and jamming my thumb as my desperate attempt to keep the disaster under control backfired.  I resorted to kneading by hand, splitting the dough in two, kneading again, trying the machine intermittently, catching the bowl again, jamming my thumb again. That elastic, soft dough I had imagined never materialized.  I plopped the two mangled globs into a greased bowl and waited.  I weighed the disadvantages of continuing.  I just wasn’t ready to throw in the towel even though the towel seemed to be the only safe witness to the morning’s fiasco.

Time to tune out.   I flipped on the TV.  Incredibly,  public television was airing a special on French pastries.  I watched as they filmed a French baker making loaf upon loaf of their renown baguette.  The camera examined the ever so soft dough rising.  They filmed its gooey elastic consistency as the baker gently rolled the dough on to wood pallets placing them into the oldest oven in France.  Before moving into their examination of the croissant, the program cut to people biting into the most perfect French bread with its crunchy exterior  and soft aerated center.   Really?  They couldn’t be showing something about polar bears or something about antiques.  No, French bread.  Just French bread.

My  own bread rose a bit, enough to pound it down a millimeter.  Any “nice bubbles” appearing in the dough were non-existent.  I used my precious stash of heavy duty plastic storage bags and placed the dough in the refrigerator.

Perfect end to the week.  The universe shouted at me to pay attention to something  I did not feel like listening to.  Yes, bread can be difficult to make.  Like life, it is supposed to look easy.  You see the end product.  You know what perfection and success is measured by.  You do the best you can, sometimes you fail,  you practice until you accomplish the wondrous goal, or you go crazy trying.  The trick is keep perspective.   I mean, you are only going to smear something on it or use it to sop up something runny anyway.  Take it easy on yourself and make the best of what comes your way.

Tomorrow I will roll out the dough and enjoy whatever it can offer me.  I hope I have enough butter or jam.  If not, I know the birds will love it.