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how to bake bread with your eyes closed

It’s the start of a new school year, and my first as a mother of secondary school children. No more school runs! I’ve been excited about this September and its infinite possibilities.

This week I thought I’d spend some of my extra time writing an entertaining deep dive into the alchemy of sourdough.

I’d exclusively reveal how every week, all I need to fuel 100 loaves of bread is this:

5 grams of flour, and 5 grams of water.

Amazing huh. It’s one of the reasons I bake bread week in and week out - the enormous satisfaction of what’s possible from such tiny beginnings.

So I took that photo - nice! - but I did not document a single aspect of the process. I did not detail, through step-by-step photography, the evolution from this teaspoon of starter to a bike-full of beautiful crackling loaves. I did not take a photo of any of the loaves.

If I’m honest, I can’t even really remember making them.

I often say romantic things about your loaves having been played the violin (true), or overhearing conversations between the children (true), or listening to the entire of Massive Attack’s Blue Lines (true).

Your loaves do usually get exemplary treatment, but this week they were made by an automaton (me, I think?)

Yesterday morning I should have been folding my dough at regular intervals, taking its temperature, judging its readiness, and playing it 90s dance anthems. I got as far as mixing the dough and then

I had to book an emergency GP appointment

then I noticed that the ceiling was leaking on my head

then I called a plumber

then took a child to the GP

then went to the pharmacy

then drove a child to school to sign in late

then dealt with the plumber.

In between these diverting activities I ignored the dough, and left it an hour longer than I should have, and forgot to have lunch. Then I went to the supermarket to buy something for tea, and calpol, without my wallet.

By yesterday evening the fridge was full of loaves I had no memory making.

Today I loaded those loaves into the oven with my phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder, talking to the GP’s receptionist again.

Then I paid the plumber all the money I earned this week.

Some weeks are like this for us all aren’t they. Digging a hole and filling it in again. But out of it all - somehow - that 10 grams of flour paste produced four oven loads of absolute belters, which I delivered to all the correct houses in time for lunch. I ate two thick slices of bread and butter standing under the water-stained ceiling and everything felt a little bit better.

I’m thinking about running a bread class this year. I’ve often wondered what I’d be able to teach that you can’t learn online, but I think I’d underestimated the number of hacks I’ve developed that allow me - and you? - to make bread in impossible circumstances, when all the resources you have are 5 grams of flour, 5 grams of water, a wing and a prayer.