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Cranberry BreadMarch 12, 2007 Keep in mind that I hadn't baked bread of any kind in more than four and a half years. The old place didn't have a kitchen, which is to say it didn't have an oven, which is to say I knew when I moved in there that I wouldn't be baking much bread. Around here you don't look year-round rentals in the mouth, especially when they're affordable, allow dogs, aren't falling down around your ears, and are within walking distance of town -- especially when you find them in June. Quite a few friends offered me the use of their ovens, in return for an occasional loaf, of course, and at first I thought I'd take them up on it, but baking bread, especially yeast breads, takes up a fair amount of space, time, and crockery. It's not like going next-door for a cup of flour; it's more like moving in for the day. I taught myself to bake bread in the months after I returned from England (late November 1975); after I'd been buying all my bread in neighborhood bakeries for 15 months, the sliced-and-cellophaned stuff in the supermarkets didn't do it for me any more. Ever since, "bread baker" has been high on the list of how I describe myself and how I'm known to others, right up there with writer, editor, feminist, lesbian, and born-again horsegirl. Nevertheless there are quite a few people I've known pretty well and for several years who've never seen, smelled, or tasted any of my breads, which is one big reason that when I got the word last October that I'd be moving again in the not-too-distant future "real kitchen" was high on my list of priorities. Even if I had to pay more for it. The lack of a "real kitchen" was the #1 reason I knew from the moment I moved into my last place that I wasn't going to live there for the rest of my life. Settling into a new place has its stages: spend the night there, set up the desk, make the first phone call, get back to work, get rid of the empty boxes . . . From the moment I moved the first stuff in, I knew baking bread would be a major milestone. So I was getting to the stage of hanging pictures on the walls and all I'd used the oven for was Stouffer's French Bread Pizza. Procrastination was taking hold, and as usual "I haven't had time" was a thin disguise for "What if I've lost my touch?" and "What if I don't really like making bread any more?" My implements -- pans, rolling pins, mixing bowls, and such -- had all survived their long neglect in good shape. (Well, my big bread-rising bowl has been commandeered for salad; I may need to get another.) Last week I started laying in supplies: Crisco, whole wheat flour, honey . . . Last night I did it. I figured I'd start with a quick bread rather than a yeast, so of course it had to be cranberry. Cranberry nut bread has been a specialty for well over two decades; I used to freeze a dozen bags of cranberries every fall, and run out before they were in the grocery stores again. I had two bags when I moved. I took out one, halved enough berries for a generous cup; sifted dry ingredients, mixed up wet, blended them all, greased a pan, poured the batter in . . . An hour later: a perfect loaf, and the place smelled great. Now I really live here, and no question about it, I'm still a bread baker. Yeast bread next -- after I make spanakopita for that potluck tomorrow night. Haven't done that in a long time either.
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