Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans
I've always loved bread. First it was specialty loaves from Draeger's. Then, after my husband's thoughtful gift one Christmas, fresh bread from the bread machine. Finally, I was ready to try the ultimate challenge: real handmade, homemade bread.
With trepidation, I took down our Julia Child cookbook, "The Way to Cook," the one that cost $50. My husband had bought it a few years ago to learn to roast a duck and prepare prime rib, and we hadn't used it since. I was afraid to. I thought that book and that chef were only for the most expert cooks, and I certainly didn't qualify.
But I pressed on, thinking that if I was going to learn good bread from any book, it had better be the best. I found nine full pages with 21 photographs - all for the one basic recipe, French bread. Slightly overwhelming. I was intrigued, though, by Julia's description of the loaves cooling: "... a sharp ear will hear them crackle - the bread's own music, as Professeur Calvel describes it." Oh, no, even the guy she's quoting spells his title in French. Was I intimidated? You'd better believe it. But one thing about bread is that, while the time invested in a batch is large (four or five hours), the cost of ingredients is small. I stocked up on bread flour and plunged ahead.
Every night for a week my family had to face my French bread attempts. First, I hadn't slashed the top with a sharp enough knife, so it didn't swell up in the oven, and looked like a stiff brown earthworm. Then it rose well, but deflated completely by the time I baked it, and looked like a stiff brown earthworm after the track team has passed. The next night the oven was too hot, and the earthworm in question was nearly black.
Then one day, everything came together. The rising, the shaping, and the slashing all went perfectly, thanks to a fresh double-edged razor I found with my husband's shaving kit. (I'm reasonably sure he had never used it.) I sprinkled asiago cheese on top for a special treat, and popped it into the oven, daringly setting the temperature lower than before to compensate for the way it burned hot.
To my delight, the loaf performed beautifully. It swelled, turned golden, and finished cooking right on cue. I removed it as my family was sitting down to dinner, and set it on the rack to cool. We said the blessing, started to eat, and - Crackle. Stick. Stickle. Crick. -came from the cooling rack. "Do you hear that?" I asked the children excitedly. They fell silent and listened.
Tickety tack. Kickle.
"That's the music of the bread!" I exclaimed. They looked at me, baffled. I explained what I was talking about. They shook their heads resignedly. Mom was off on one of her enthusiasms again.
They got a lot more supportive, though, when they tasted it. It was still warm, and large-grained and chewy and flaky and wonderful.
The cheese on the top crust was delicately browned, crisp, and delicious. Butter spread on their slices ran in rivulets down the little tunnels and dripped off their fingers. We ate three-quarters of the loaf in that one meal.
I may someday go on to higher and more refined culinary triumphs, but I'll never equal the simple joy of my first loaf of French bread and the pleasure of its music.
Best of all, now I know how to play that music myself.