The Yeasty-beasties and me.

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When I bake bread, I talk to the yeast. I know they're alive, and their digestion of sugar and flour results in little carbon dioxide gifts that make the dough rise. When I put sugar and warm water in a cup to "proof" the yeast, I say "Heeey yeasty-besties! Time to wake up! Time to divide and make some good dough!" I start with warm liquid ingredients. Today it's milk, and three eggs, and some lovely rice germ oil. My bread is a meal in a slice. I used two packets of yeast (the regular kind, mind you, not the quick rising kind) for a better rise. It's been a bit cold lately and that makes my little beasties sluggish. I usually cheer on the dough, too, as I knead and pummel the dough into being. When it's done, I look down at my golden pale mass (that's right, I said mass) and say "oh, that's a beautiful dough." There's so much you can learn by pure feel, I've lost the need for measuring as I know how much flour needs to be in the dough based on how it's acting. I cheer them on as the dough rises, ponder the temperature in the Rising Haven carefully. On a chilly day like this I'll turn the oven on to low for a bit, just till the gas jets light, and leave it for a bout a minute before turning it off again. Keeping the door closed, the oven makes a nice warm place for my dough to rise. Later on, when I slice into that first fat, golden brown loaf, I'll say "All right, yeastie beasties! Good job!" This post brought to you by a desire for bread and an imagination fed by too much cough syrup.