Bread adventure

 "The holiday season arrived, and with it, the usual chaos of excited children and frantic meal planning. But this year, I decided to embrace the chaos by tackling a baking project I'd been putting off for far too long: making my own bread."

Two months ago, I embarked on a self-imposed bread ban. The cravings were real, but I was determined to resist. This abstinence, however, only served to heighten my desire, fuelling a simmering ambition: to bake my own bread. Not just any bread, mind you. I envisioned a masterpiece a symphony of flavours, a culinary creation that would rival the best boulangeries in Paris (in my dreams, at least).

Armed with a newfound resolve and a grocery list longer than my arm, I set out to conquer the world of bread making. My arsenal included: flour, yeast, sugar, egg, cinnamon, butter  powder milk, and a secret weapon  a collection of tropical fruits: bananas, coconut flakes, and, yes, pineapple. (Judge me if you must, but pineapple in bread? Hear me out I was on a mission of culinary exploration!)

The stage was set. My neighbour, the ever-gracious Miss Emmanuella, had graciously offered the use of her oven (may her baking sheets forever be blessed). I gathered my ingredients, a mischievous glint in my eye. This was going to be epic, this started previous night.

Kneading the dough was a workout in itself. My arms protested, my back ached, but I persevered. Following Miss Emmanuella's advice, I let the dough rise overnight. Morning dawned, and I eagerly checked on my creation. Disappointment. Only one doughy lump had risen. The others remained stubbornly flat. I started looking for solution, research with my AI which wasn’t helpful then, I decided to add baking powder so it help Lift.

Enter Amara, my resident baking guru. "Too much flour," she declared, examining the dough with the discerning eye of a seasoned baker. "Needs more moisture." Warm milk was summoned, eggs were cracked, and the kneading resumed. Amara, bless her soul, patiently guided me through the process, while I stubbornly insisted on incorporating my pineapple. (She raised an eyebrow, but wisely refrained from further.)

Finally, the dough was ready for the oven. I carefully shaped it into what I hoped resembled loaves (they ended up looking more like squat cakes), and anxiously awaited the results.

The aroma that filled the house was divine. Golden-brown loaves emerged, each with its own unique character. The banana bread was a triumph sweet, moist, and bursting with flavour. The coconut bread was a classic, a comforting blend of nutty and earthy. And the pineapple bread? Well, let's just say it was an experience. (I'm still not sure how I feel about it.)

 Shared with neighbours and friends. Bread vanished faster than you can say "sourdough." I beamed with pride, savouring the fruits (pun intended) of my labour.

This little bread adventure taught me more than just how to bake. It was a lesson in humility, a reminder to be open to advice and embrace the unexpected. Amara, with her gentle guidance, prevented me from committing a cardinal sin of bread making  creating a brick. There are people in our lives who offer support and wisdom, not to carry us, but to help us navigate the journey.

And as for the pineapple bread? Well, it's an acquired taste. But hey, at least I tried.

P.S. If you're wondering, no, you cannot have any of my bread. It's all gone.

I am grateful for my baking skills. 

What are you grateful for today? 

Share in the comments below!