EXCERPT

The Path of Righteousness

Matthew Batt

There are three schools of thought on contemporary bread. The first says that baking is Fun and Easy! and all you need is one of those handy-dandy Donco Magic Bread Machines and an index finger and you’ll have fresh bread coming out of your shorts by morning. These people are not bakers. They are simply pressers of buttons and they are an abomination. The second school of bread-thought says that making bread is like getting in touch with the Great Baker of the Universe, who kneaded our souls from sweet, sweet bulgur wheat. These people are not so much bakers as baked. The third school says, Baking is freaking hard. It is not sexy. It is not fun. You will not get your own cooking show, not even a chef’s coat. Baking exists somewhere between art, science, and alchemy, and unless you are willing to dedicate a significant portion of your life to it—let’s say your days and your nights for starters—don’t bother.

This is what you need to begin:

1. A pound of flour

2. A pound of seedless grapes.

3. 16 fluid ounces of water

Crush the grapes. Stir. Wait two weeks.

Taste it. Smell it. Touch it. It should eventually take on the color and consistency of pancake batter, but it’s OK initially if it seems like gym socks steeped in rancid milk. It’s alive.

My friend’s father used to make bread from scratch every week, and as a kid she used to love to watch him knead the dough, the kitchen dusty and illuminated with flour. I didn’t have such an easy orientation to fathers. My adoptive father is dead; my biological father is observing strict radio silence; and my grandfather—the only consistent father figure of my life—has been wallowing in woman trouble ever since my grandmother died. As for me, my wife and I are getting to that point in time when we either start trying to have a baby or get the pipes capped off.Instead of making a decision, I started to bake.