I determined that I would learn to bake during the summer I was 18, which would be 11 years ago now. Since then, I’ve become reasonably competent. I’m good with cookies and cakes and have little fear of pies and galettes, although I could use more practice with them. Cheesecakes are fine. I’ve never tried hardcore pastries, mostly for fear of my waistline (such as it is). Tarts remain on the list.

The thing that has always struck terror into my little cook’s heart, though, are breads. Anything yeast-based, really. My great-grandmother and grandma were yeast masters, and their kitchen was always full of wonderful smells and breads and rolls. My mom isn’t too shabby either, and she went through a bread phase a few years back. Me, on the other hand... Every other year or so, I decide that I’m going to tackle bread. And every time, I wuss out before I even start the first loaf.

This year is an even year in the cycle, which means that it’s time for me to consider the subject again. I woke up this morning and thought, “I shall bake bread.” Then I dragged out all my baking books and looked at the bread pr0n pictures and read about how simple it is, like I always do. Then I ran my mouth to Mister Boyfriend, and that was where I made my mistake. He has a baking history that includes brioches and all kinds of tasty whatnots (from before my tenure with him, sadly), and he still makes a mean loaf of bread-machine bread. He didn’t let me back out after my usual case of Bread Fear set in. So it has come to pass that I have a dough for simple white loaves making its first rise in the kitchen.

I’ll let you know how it goes.