Imperfect Perfection

When times are tough, bake some bread

Close to perfect - photo by the author

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My friend Jeanette came for a visit and brought homemade sourdough bread. As requested, she also brought me some of her starter. Mine had died a long time ago.

Like a lot of people I began to bake bread during Covid. My sons inspired me because they were experimenting with this too. I think that’s where I got my first starter. Or did I make it myself? My memory is blurry.

The prospect of creating the perfect loaf excited me. I researched the best recipes and ordered the suggested supplies. I followed the recipe exactly, careful to weigh each ingredient. I set my timer to make sure I did the required stretching and folding. But my first loaf resembled “Jabba the Hutt.”

I watched techniques on YouTube so I could do the critical kneading and shaping right. Eventually, I got the hang of it and began to create beautiful, tasty loaves. I imagined being a baking kind of person with a garden of fresh veggies out back - a real earth mother. I had dreams of being self-sustaining during the pandemic.

Then I got distracted and my starter died.

Then I moved.

Then I was diagnosed with MDS.

Then I had a stem cell transplant.

For a while I couldn’t cook. At first, it was because I wasn’t supposed to handle things that could expose me to bacteria. Then I had no appetite, and everything tasted weird so I had very little interest in culinary adventures. I also wasn’t allowed to garden – couldn’t be exposed to all the weird shit in soil.

That was almost three years ago, so when my friend brought me the starter I became inspired. Once again I was going to distract myself from the problems of the world by perfecting my bread baking ability. But my first loaf this time looked like Jabba’s twin.

I persevered and finally produced a decent loaf. It wasn’t perfect but it looked good. The taste and texture was close. As usual it needed more salt.

Last weekend I was babysitting my grandsons and took some of the starter to with to bake bread with the boys, ages 2.5, 4.5 and 7. The “.5” is important if you’ve ever hung out with little kids. There’s a big difference in those half years.

I love how the youngest looks bored. photo by the author

At first the 2.5-year-old didn’t understand what we were making and wanted to eat the starter. The 4.5-year-old didn’t want to stop building his racetrack.

The seven-year-old was all in and helped me measure the flour, water and salt, spilling lots on the way to the bowl. He helped me mix the dough. Each time the alarm went off he did a haphazard stretch and fold. I didn’t redo his work, but gently guided him to try again.

He went to bed before it was time to shape the dough. As I completed this step I tried to pretend I was a seven-year-old boy. I didn’t focus on perfection before plopping it into the proofing basket and putting it in the fridge.

The next morning as the oven warmed we turned the dough onto parchment paper. To my surprise it was a beautiful, perfectly proofed loaf.

The 4.5-year-old became interested when I pulled out the bread lame (aka razor blade on a stick). I had to remind him that it wasn’t a light saber as he began to slash the air. They were each offered a turn making a cut, but the 2.5-year-old was more interested in playing with his Lego train.

While the bread was baking we watched episodes of “Bluey.” It was my first time watching this show, so they had to explain the characters to me. I love how each one is a perfect representation of the roles they play. Mother, father, oldest and youngest. I also enjoyed hearing my grandsons practice their Australian accents.

When the timer rang and we were delighted by the results. The bread was the perfect shape with a golden crust. I knew we wouldn’t be able to wait the suggested cooling time of two hours. But I did convince them to watch another episode of Bluey before cutting into it.

Their dad was also impatient, so before the show was over he’d pulled out the cutting board and began slicing. The inside was filled with all sizes of bubbles.

The holes are kind of big but the kids loved looking through them. Notice the photo bomb by Cooper the dog.

No one waited for butter before biting into their pieces. The crust was crunchy and the interior was soft and tasty. Could have used a bit more salt, but that didn’t stop any of us. It was delicious.

Imperfect perfection.

This experience reminded me of all the times I’ve struggled with perfection. It seems when I try too hard to get things right, I fail. But when I lean into the process, just enjoying the creation, the results are often better. Plus I’m not stressed out.

My mother was a perfectionist in the kitchen. She had over fifty cookbooks and binders full of recipes. So many times she was distraught as we sat down to a meal. The beef was overcooked or the turkey was under done. She’d slam pots and pans around in frustration. Or drink too much wine at the dinner table as she lamented her mistakes.

As kids we weren’t allowed in the kitchen too often – except to do the dishes. She did share recipes and gave me many cookbooks. But I found striving for perfection was overwhelming when I was a young mother. Soon I started using recipes as suggestions. A little of this, a dash of that.

I taught my kids the same method. When they call me for recipes I often give vague measurements. Some of my best meals were created that way.

It’s more fun to cook, and sometimes paint, like a seven-year-old boy.

Splashing paint and ink around with no plan. I’m calling this on “Secret Plans” - 7 x 10 metallic watercolor with ink - (CR-017)