So there are a few pieces in my kitchen that just make my life a lot easier. First of all, my 10 inch chef's knife, without which my dices would not be exact and prepping would be infinitely more tedious. Then comes my Cuisinart, doing jobs that can take the place of countless other kitchen tools including the blender, cheese grater, and a knife. My Kitchen-aid stand mixer waits patiently to lend a helping whip or mix, speeding every process and leaving my arm less strained. However, perhaps the most beloved of all of my kitchen gizmos and gadgets is the most simple of them: my deep dish baking stone. There isn't any complicated engineering that goes into it, for ages people have used similar things. Baking stones don't like soap; they tend to soak up every volatile of flavor that goes into them and therefore require only the most delicious of contents. Because of this layering of flavor, they stick with you; they can tell the story of your cooking life by kissing the next dish with their historic priming.
When I was little I remember asking my mom if we could make bread. Usually she kind of pushed away the idea, saying that it might take too long or that she wasn't really up to it. I never held out hope for trying to gain some insight into such a mysterious process. Finally one day she came to me with a Martha Stewart recipe for Rosemary Focaccia that she had found in her latest magazine. I was excited, but also a little nervous as I read through the seemingly endless steps towards that holy grail of nourishment. My mom helped me through the steps: heating the water to just the perfect temperature, sprinkling in the yeast and letting it ferment, incorporating the oil, salt, and flour....and kneading. This is when I really fell in love with the bread making process. At first I started by rolling the dough around and not doing a whole lot of pushing. My mom kept telling me that I needed to be a bit stronger with the dough. I slowly got the hang of it and learned that it was a good way to take out any anger, to really feel the process, and to push in as much love as I could. This is where the intimacy of the bread making process comes in...the blood, sweat, and tears; love and good tidings; memory that you are taking part in such an old process with so much history of nourishing and making people happy.
We continued on with the rising and creation of that sweet ethanol that makes dough smell so great, punching down the dough (yes, I already said it is a good way to get your anger out), the final rise on a cookie sheet, making little dimples in the dough, drizzling on olive oil, and sprinkling on the salt and rosemary. Into the oven went my creation, filled with my heart and soul, I chucked in a cup of ice in order to create steam, thereby creating that thick crust that makes focaccia so well known. Then came the anxious anticipation as more and more volatile compounds creeped towards my nose. Finally the climax of the whole experience came as the bread came out. It was absolutely gorgeous, a nice goldeny-brown color, studded with little brownish green specks of rosemary. And the smell...ohhh the smell! It was overwhelming.
As soon as the bread cooled off a bit I cut it open and tasted. It was absolutely perfect. A crusty exterior encased a dense, soft interior. You could taste the yeast, the fermentation, the woodsy sweetness of the rosemary, and the perfectly balanced salt in every bite. This is when my love affair with making bread began, at the ripe old age of 11 or so. I think we made some BLT sandwiches with the bread, always a good lunch, but to me the bread was the star.
Since that day I have made countless other breads. I have learned about the chemistry and the reactions that develop the texture and the flavor. I have learned practically how to apply these things and have been able to branch out into different types of bread using a huge variety of ingredients, even creating some recipes of my own. I have learned that making bread is a stress reliever for me and a good way to share a little bit of myself with the people I love. I have learned to get in touch with the history of breadmaking and to feel the thousands of years behind me that have shaped each loaf. I have learned to keep trying, knowing that I have by no means mastered the art. Most of all, I have learned to respect that baking stone.
Starting with my second attempt at foccacia, my deep dish baking stone has become my sidekick in the quest for perfect bread. It lends a crustiness and flavor that remains unmatched by any other method I have tried. Through the years, my stone has aided about 90% of the pizzas, biscuits, breads, and rolls that I have created, with an unyielding strength and determination. With all of that being said, they are nearly the most picky of of all the kitchen residents; mostly they just break easily...
I have broken 3 in my life. The first wasn't even mine, it was my friend Laura Beth's and was being called on to make a chocolate chip biscuit dessert with sweetened condensed milk. What happened was kind of a blur, I took it out of the oven and it was just cracked in two, with no clues as to why. She didn't scream...I would have.
The second was my most favorite. It was the first stone I ever used for bread- its first use was a foccacia topped with 'parma del sol' spices. It did everything for me and I was very protective of it. After all, it knew my history, my food, and it always served well. It died in the midst of a move from Knoxville to Raleigh. I discovered the pieces as I was repacking boxes in Cincinnati and my heart just sunk, a moment of silence for its service.
Never fear, my mom was at the ready, giving me her deep dish baking stone with a pink glaze on the outside. It definitely lessened the blow of my last loss. Today I took it out to make my coconut milk bread and I set it on the stove. I went to work mixing up coconut milk, yeast and sugar in order to start fermenting. Then I was hungry...it was lunch time. Never to fear, I was going to boil some water for spaghetti in order to satiate my hunger. I turned on the burner and got to mixing up my dough. After a couple of minutes I heard a loud *CRACK*. I looked over to the stove only to find that my new stone was cracked into 3 pieces, I had turned on the wrong burner.
I guess this bread won't be made using the flavor of a stone, unfortunately, but I'm sure it will turn out anyways. A new deep dish baking stone will come into my life soon enough and we will continue to try to conquer the bread world. However, now I can't help but be a little sad for the stone and the breads that it will never take part in making. Rest in peace.
