Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks Page B

suitable for postmortem identification.
Then in the seventies everyone jumped onboard the organic/whole earth bandwagon, and started throwing every grain they could find into the mix, but the recipes called for way too much yeast and lots of oil and eggs and milk, because we all still craved that soft and tender stuff we grew up on.
It wasn’t until I went to France that I tasted bread that wasn’t full of additives and air. It was like a religious conversion for me. In fact, it’s kind of like sex—one of those things that everyone thinks they know all about and they tell you how great it is, but which is actually pretty uninspiring until you have it one time the way nature intended it to be.
So, the first thing I do is cut the yeast in half. You don’t want the dough to set a new land-speed record. What you want is a long, slow rise to build the kind of texture and flavor that make people think you paid $5.95 for this loaf at the European Gourmet Bakery.
I combine the yeast with the water in a large crockery bowl, stir in the sugar, and let it sit for a few minutes while I measure the flour into another bowl. Then I stir in the flour with the only big spoon I can find in this pitifully underequipped kitchen. When it clumps together and pulls away from the sides of the bowl, I turn it out on the counter and knead it for ten minutes, adding just enough flour to keep it moving. Then I knead in the salt. Dead last. Because salt strengthens the gluten and makes the dough fight you.
When it’s smooth and elastic enough to spring back when I poke it, I oil a big bowl, slosh the dough around in it, making sure the entire surface is oiled. Then I put a damp towel over it and set it as far from the stove as I can. Someplace like a wine cellar would be nice, but CM doesn’t have one of those. I put it on her dining room table.
With half the yeast, it’ll take twice as long to rise, so I pour myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and start scraping dough off the counter.
The scent of yeast hanging in the air reminds me of my levain and the day that David came to my apartment with the Nixon mask and a pizza. The sharpness of the longing I feel takes me somewhat by surprise. Maybe CM was right. Maybe I would be better off without him. But then why do I feel like howling right now? Why do I want to touch his face, smell him, feel his body against me?
I’d settle for talking to him. But I can’t call him at work. In a small company like JMP, everybody knows everybody else’s business as it is. We’re probably already fodder for the gossip mill.
I’ll call the house. He won’t be home, but I can leave him a message on the machine. Just to let him know I’m thinking of him. Maybe he’s lonely, too, and he’s embarrassed to call me after all the things he said. This way, he’ll have the excuse of returning my call to save his fragile male ego.
He’ll call me back tonight. Probably late, because he’ll be working late as usual. I’ll sit in the living room in the dark, and I’ll tell him about what I see—lights of the city, the ferries moving across the black water toward the shadowed islands. I’ll tell him I made bread today. I’ll tell him I miss him. We can start with that. Just “I miss you.” We can build on that. It’s not just him, after all; some of the blame belongs to me.
CM has one of those duck telephones that quacks instead of ringing. She calls him Dorian. I punch in our phone number on his belly. I’m expecting four rings followed by the recording, but after two rings there’s a click. He’s home.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.Unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s Kelley Hamlin’s voice. “Hello-o. This is the Franklin res—” There’s a rustling noise and then a ringing crash as the phone hits the floor. Then David’s voice.
“Hello.”
Dorian and I exchange a meaningful glance.
“Hello? This is David Franklin.” There’s a distinct note of panic