A Rustic Loaf of Bread

Today, I really, really wanted to write about a perfect loaf of rustic, crusty, farmhouse bread. Complete with pictures. And a recipe.

But, alas, today is not that day.

Lately, these beautiful pictures of rustic round loaves of bread have been popping up on my social media feeds. Gorgeous, delicious looking loaves of bread. I have bread envy. So, being me, I decided that I, too, shall bake and post pictures. And a recipe.

And therein was my downfall. See, along with those wonderful pictures of marvelous loaves, not one person, be it friend, relation, or celebrity, had included the recipe they used. Nope. Not one.

Not a problem. I have a lovely collection of cookbooks, and, if I have no success in my own collection, there is Pinterest. And I am more than a bit skilled in search engines. (Yeah, give me 20 seconds and a few choice words...)

Off I set on my quest for not the perfect round loaf, but for a recipe. It should have been easy. Like, 5 minute easy.

Right

Two hours later, I still had nothing. I mean, I had recipes. Recipes of varying amounts of flour, water, yeast, oven temperature, baking vessel... but not one that looked like it should have my desired results. The perfect, round loaf of rustic, flour dusted bread.

That's all bread is really. Flour. Water. Yeast.

I can do this. I've done this!

I have recipes for wonderful breads. Honey Wheat, Herbed Oatmeal, Artisan Cheese... But not Rustic Round Bread. Nothing. Ziltch. Zero. Zip.

So, being me, I set out to create my own by combining a favorite that was almost right; a method from this one, a temperature from that, an amount adjustment here, an added knead from there. And I thought I had it.

I didn't.

I'm not going to get into the process here as I don't want to contribute to the swear jar. Let's just say that I've been watching The Witcher and made good use of an oft uttered expression. Really good use.

And my lovely loaf of perfect rustic bread was a bit less than perfect. Quite a bit. It was round. And bread. And edible. Quite edible. There is one small bit left. But not perfect.

Thus, the quest continues. I'm not about to let this go. Even if I have to toss a coin to the Witcher myself and beg for his recipe. (As it was on his Insta that I was initially inspired. If he can make one, I can!)

And I'll be good enough to post the link to my recipe when I do get this right.

The Birds from IPSA

When it comes to inspiration, sometimes you just have to close those eyes, blank out any thoughts, and let whatever wants to wander through happen.

So... I did.

And what happened to wander through was a long, long ago writing I did for a class in college. It was one of several projects (brilliant projects, I might add) that were part of my Writing for Broadcast course.

The Birds from IPSA.

The International Penguin Spy Association.

Run by Ben and Gwen, two emperor penguins. Their nemesis? A walrus with a broken tusk named... wait for it... The Vicar.

Seriously. This was my project.

The class was tasked with writing a half hour television show. Script, direction, sets, costuming, props, cues, the works. Any subject. Any form. I suppose if I had wanted to write about penguins I could have scripted a documentary, but where is the fun in that. Nope, I wanted to do more of a throwback to the shows of my childhood. Think Man from UNCLE (see what I did there?!)... Wild Wild West... Lancelot Link...

Yep... What's the path my brain went down. A weird, twisty path of penguins in fedoras and trenchcoats; a broken toothed walrus with an ascot; a dingy upstairs office with a door with a dirty window with the cover name of the agency (somehow, that tidbit escapes me at the moment) and worn plank wood floors.

I also can't quite remember the plot of my pilot show. I suppose I could rummage around in the Memory Box that has been packed and repacked and moved at least three times for the original transcript. But the plot is not really the point here. (This is assuming I had a point when I started, or even need to have one.)

The best part of the whole thing was that Professor Grow not only let me create my strange little show (yes, with a raised eyebrow, but he did), but he graded it based on the required criteria. And gave me an A. Sound writing, proper plot development, accurate layout, stayed in time frame, etc. I did get chastised for the use of The Vicar, seeing as how the church in England may not have taken kindly to his character. I suppose those were more politically correct times. Professor Grow always graded blind, with our names on the back of the final page, but I'm pretty sure he knew this one was mine. This may or may not have had anything to do with the paper I had written as Opus, the penguin from Bloom County. (I had a thing for penguins in college. Don't ask.)

Inspiration and creativity should never be "graded" on the subject matter or who the artist happens to be. The final project should be seen for what it is. It is personal, and sometimes singular, and sometimes entirely unnoticed and unappreciated by the world around it. The beauty in the creation belongs to the creator. The world may see it, or not; judge it, or not; grade it, or not; chose to appreciate it, or not. And that part doesn't matter.

Rabbit Holes

Or how I decided to start writing again, got lost, and found myself.

I used to write. A lot! I had great discipline, and would sit down with my first cup of coffee, and write. Almost every day. Almost. Then, life got busy. I mean, not in the actual "busy" sense. But I let myself slack. A lot. And I "let myself go". Until I was rather "out of shape" and no longer disciplined, creatively speaking.

I would start up again, here and there, with smatterings, only to abandon the muse. (Or, maybe she abandoned me, with my half-hearted efforts and lack of focus.) Then, the other night, when I had a thought about my fear of pressure cookers... and it didn't let go. Instead, it grew, and grew, and grew, until I quite realized that it needed to be scripted out. Sort of like when a tune gets stuck inside one's head and the only way to be rid of it is to let it out by singing it. And thus, I remembered my blogs. Plural.

Now, if you look over to the right, you can see a listing of posts. And a gap. A looooooooong gap. An 8 year gap. That does not mean that nothing creative happened in those 8 years. It just means that nothing creative happened that got posted here. Blogger is quite an interesting platform. Once logged in (and that was the tricky part that took longer than my first writing once I was in!), there is this great home page. This page of wonders holds all your settings, templates, resources, etc. And... it shows the list of blogs that you have started. Apparently, I used to write. A lot.

I like to be organized ~cough understatement cough~ and I obviously tried to be a bit orderly when it came to my creative inspiration. I have a recipe blog... for food. And one for martinis. (Ok, mixed drinks shaken and served in martini glasses.) And poetry. And jewelry making. And catharsis. And quite a few for when I had started up writing again and tried to travel down a different path. But this one, my "Amok" time (bonus points if you got that reference), was my favorite. Well, after Stuff We Eat, which is nothing but my recipe journal.

It was on The Muse that I just kind of let the words flow. After I hit "publish" yesterday, I started reading the older posts. Backwards. Yep, I didn't go and start with the first one to see how I got to this point. Nope. I starting working my way back. It was... interesting. Very interesting. And I started rediscovering myself, who I was, what I loved. And... who I am.

I guess I kind of got too "busy" at some point and lost myself along with the writing. And I'm kind of glad I didn't attempt to start yet another new blog fresh, but instead decided to build on the one I have always liked (second) best.

And I think I need to start posting on that recipe blog again as well!

Of Cabbages and Kings...

I made corned beef last night.

This is a big deal. HUGE!

I did not make cabbages though. On this point, I want to be clear.

The reason that this is a big deal is because corned beef terrifies me. Not the meat itself; no, of that, I am most fond. It is the entire process of the making of the meal. You see, my father made the most excellent corned beef, having learned from his mother. It was perfectly spiced and tender and my mouth still waters. And it also involved the most deadly piece of kitchen equipment known to man. The "pressure cooker of death"! Seriously. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that this pot would kill me given the chance, and I wholeheartedly believed this. And it scared the bejesus out of me! Yea, verily, it did. The cooker itself was rather innocent looking enough... with the exception of the mysterious gadget affixed to the lid. Of the pot itself, I had no fear. But that gadget... that round, wobbly instrument of presumed death... THAT was what would do me in! Once the cooking process was begun, and the enticing smells started seeping out, drawing one ever closer... that was where the danger lay! And the wobbly would begin its dance. Slowly at first, then ever more feverishly. Dancing, and wobbling, and singing, and wobbling, and steaming, and wobbling. I assumed it would lure you in, that pot of savoriness, wait for just the right moment... and WHAM! Off the wobbly would fly, hit me square between my young eyes, and end me. Right there, in the kitchen. (It was the pot, in the kitchen, with the wobbly!)

Now, the wobbly never once came flying off, not in all the years (and years, and years) of corned beef that my father made. I never gave it the chance. I kept my distance, knowing that if I dropped my guard, it was death by wobbly for me. I grew up, moved out, and never attempted a proper corned beef. This was mainly due to my refusal to ever own a pressure cooker. Nope, it wasn't inviting that danger into my home! I attempted to cook them a couple times, using misguided Dutch Oven or oven braised recipes. It can't be done, I figured... that wonderful, tender goodness... unless you risk your life! I was doomed to tough, bland chunks of sadness.

So, ok, I was wrong. There is this new miracle thing out there, and the House got one for Christmas this year. (That is an entirely different writing to be attempted another time.) This thing... this "Instant Pot" of wonder... well, it did it! A little Guinness, a little broth... some onions... (also another writing to be found on Stuff We Eat a Lot another time) and it happened! A wonderful lump of perfection that corned beef of my youth! Without the foreboding.... without the fear! Well, maybe just a little fear. I did need to push the "Pressure" button. And release the steam. But I did it.

It is said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." Challenge accepted , fear conquered. I suppose facing my fear of phyllo dough is next.