Bread Alone

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Chapter One

Bread

Two hundred and thirty big country loaves are just about ready to come out of the oven. Five more minutes, I think to myself—any longer would burn some, and any less would leave others raw and doughy. I stand in front of the oven and wait. It's the only time I'll have to stand still, and I like it. I take the chance to admire the oven for maybe the thousandth time. I love looking at it—tall, wide, deep, beautifully solid red brick, with a wood fire that emits soft inescapable heat. Forty minutes ago these breads were loaded into the oven; the last flames have died, but I can still feel the burn of the heat. Sometimes it's so intense itturns the arched bricks of the hearth inside ash-white. To weather it, I work in tanktop, shorts, and sneakers—winter, spring, summer, and fall.

I can't see how the breads are doing now, but I want to. Any one of the four rectangular iron doors would easily swing open if I tapped on it with the paddle end of my fourteen-foot-long baker's peel. But I resist. I don't want to disrupt the balance of heat, time, and baking inside. The aroma from the oven is tender-sweet, not at all the strong toasted smell that signals burning crust. A few more minutes, I say to myself. I wait.

I glance at my hands curled around the smooth handle of the peel. As usual, they are gloved with flour. There's flour under my fingernails and the same creamy dust coats every hair on my arms up to my elbows. My palms have become like dough itself, warm and soft. Almost every baker I've met for the first time has shook my hand with the same kind of smooth and dusty palm I have now.

The fragrance in the air has changed somewhat—not so sweet, slightly toasted. I tip open a door and the bright hearth light illuminates the breads, a sea of round caramel-colored loaves, each one domed and glowing. A vision of abundance, they sit on the brick hearth in neat rows, looking so swollen they could explode. I pull one out and look at it carefully. Its vibrant reddish-brown crust has expanded beautifully. I turn it over and give the bottom a thump with my finger: the sound is hollow. Done to perfection. The loaf is very hot, so I quickly place it on the cooling rack. As I do, I hear its crust begin to crackle and pop. All the loaves will do the same, as the hot and puffy crusts contract slightly when they meet the cooler air.

I begin to work quickly, sliding the peel under as many loaves as possible at a time, then pulling them out and sliding them onto the wire cooling racks nearby. I have to hustle to get the breads out before they toast too dark, because even with the doors open, the hearth and oven remain extremely hot and the breads will continue to bake. Heat pours out into the room while I work hear the open face of the oven, shoving the long-handled peel deeper each time to retrieve more loaves. They are so hot it feels as if I'm pulling fire from fire. If I can keep a consistent rhythm going, I'll get to the loaves in the back just at the right moment. They always take a little longer to bake than the breads in front.Halfway through I examine another loaf.

It has a very good color and aroma, but an odd knot on the top makes it imperfectly round. It makes me smile, and I place it on the rack with the others. There will be many more like it.

Fifteen minutes later the cooling racks are full and crackling with new breads. Not one burned or toasted too dark. I take the one that has been cooling the longest and hold it up to my face with both hands. The sweet wheat fragrance makes my mouth water. I press with my thumbs until the crust fractures and a sweet grain aroma rises from within. I share the loaf with the other bakers.

The vacant hearth floor has cooled some and the cavernous oven, looking like the open mouth of a hungry animal, awaits the next doughy raw loaves. With a weathered wrought-iron hook, I open the damper to the oven, remove the empty cast-iron water bucket, and lift the heavy iron collar into its housing over the firebox; this will direct the flames into the oven for the next firing. Next, I open the firebox door and immediately feel the rush of coal-red heat on my legs. I take a shovel and level the piles of burning embers. Then I go through the back door of the bakery to the woodpile outside. The chilly autumn air invigorates my hot skin. There's a wheelbarrow sitting nearby, and eventually I've piled it high with split logs for a fresh fire. When I stoke the coals in the firebox with the new wood, the logs explode into flames.

I am hypnotized by the fire—a rich, primitive, organic power. I stare into it as it grows and gains force, and my imagination is fed by the flames. Sometimes I see memories come alive in the quick strokes of fire—times I've spent with people around other fires in other places. Sometimes I stare and work through a problem I have to solve: How will I pay the miller this month, why is the sourdough so sluggish? But today I'm not thinking anything. Fm feeling.

I'm not sure what the feeling is exactly, but luck comes the closest. If my life were a fable or myth, I would love the role I've been cast in—the village baker. I'm happy producing hearty breads in the tradition of European village bakers. These are large hand-formed loaves made only from organic flour, yeast, water, and salt—nothing else . . . .

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Excerpted from Bread Alone: Bold Fresh Loaves from Your Own Hands by Daniel Leader, Judith Blahnik
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.