Bread as Therapy

Even though this is a public forum, I won't lie: I've been very depressed this week. Today, on my day off I got up and cleaned our apartment, then went to the store to pick up a few things. As you know, for St. Patrick's Day I made some Irish Potato Bread--the recipe I found in the St. Louis Post Dispatch is good (I've made it twice), but Leah hates it. Which is good for me...in a way (because I get to eat it all by myself). There is something about the process of making bread that both fascinates me and soothes me. I guess a more manly thing would be to polish guns or something...but that's not really my bag (baby). So instead, I bought some dry yeast and a loaf pan, and I baked. Simple white bread. The time it takes to do this is incredible (over five hours), and most of that time is spent simply waiting...and yet it fills me with such pleasure. The act of making something with my hands, the care required...the measurements of time and flour.

When I first started working, I had three jobs I wanted (because I thought they'd be "fun"): bookstore clerk, security guard, and music store clerk. I did two out of three (never found a job in a record shop) and for the most part, I enjoyed working those jobs. When I moved to STL-land, I was introduced to St. Louis Bread Company (by way of my best-friend Leah). For some reason (maybe it was the good food), I found myself adding "bread baker" to that little mental list. Alas, my pride (and BA) keep me from applying to a job where all I'd do is bake bread. But after today, I'd do it in a heartbeat (if it paid above minimum wage).

The historian part of me (that kid who, at the end of the day, just likes stories) is curious about the origin/history of bread. How the hell did we come up with it? I know a quick search of the Internet would yield me something close to an answer...but I'm not searching, not today. It maybe simple magic, but it's magic nonetheless. And right now, I need that more than anything: