Why My Bread Didn’t Rise
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I have amazing mechanical skills. If I contemplate a problem
long enough, generally I can figure out how to fix it. When I was a very young
mother and my daughter was in diapers, back when diapers were squares of cotton
cloth, my washing machine broke down.
If you’ve ever washed 80 diapers by hand, you will
understand why I lay on the floor beneath my wringer washer, the kind with the
tub up on legs with a wringer attached to the rim of the tub, and looked and
thought and looked and thought.
With only the most rudimentary tools, pliers and two screwdrivers
and a couple wrenches, I took something apart down there that looked broken,
fixed it, put it back together with only two small extra parts, filled the tub
with water heated on the wood stove and washed a huge load of baby clothes.
Christmas Eve, year after year, I’ve spent hours on the
floor putting together children’s toys made in China, directions written in
Chinese.
For years my ability to take things apart and put them back
together more beautifully made my house payments.
Mechanically, I’m good. Electronically, not so hot. At
electronics, I’m rubbish. Electronics turn my brain into 3-days-in-the-pan,
overcooked, congealed oatmeal.
The other day I finally got my new internet service
installed. I was excited. I’d been piggy-backing off a generous neighbor’s
services, gratefully. I got my computer, my kindle, my tablet all online. No
problem. I know how to do that.
However, my printer refused to spit out a page of print. My
computer refused to even recognize my printer. What is this, a grade school
snit amongst electronic equipment?
I’ve a fairly new printer which I had managed to install
with no problems and only minor irritation and sweat. I followed the
directions. I should be able to find this problem and fix it. Right?
After a couple hours, I quit. Had a sleepless night, trying
to figure it out while lying awake in bed. That never works but I keep trying,
which I think is the definition of insanity.
The following day, with my daughter on the phone 2500 miles
away, we worked another couple hours. No go.
Interspersed with my futile attempts to make my printer work,
I mixed a batch of dough for bread. Baking bread is a mechanical process. I’m
an excellent baker.
The dough didn’t feel right. Bread dough is sensitive. It
responds to emotional atmosphere. I know that dough felt my frustrations and acted
accordingly. Finally, it had risen enough that I could form loaves, which I
almost threw away but, reluctantly, just in case, put in the oven.
One last attempt trying to hook up my printer. Remember the
definition of insanity? When I quit, I was screaming. I was screaming for ice
cream. I grabbed my neighbor, Crin, and talked her into sharing ice cream with
guava sauce I’d made that morning. (Guava is not so sensitive.)
Not being totally devoid of brains, in defeat, I asked for
help. My neighbor Josue is trained in electronics and robotics. Go figure. You
are right. I should have started with “HELP”.
I picked up a book and sat in a chair with my back to Josue.
I hate someone looking over my shoulder when I am working. Ten minutes later,
Josue asked me to come test the printer. Ten minutes! I was immensely grateful,
but, a tiny contrary part of me wanted to brain him. Ten minutes!
My bread was not light and fluffy and full-sized, but Crin convinced
me to keep it for toast. I gave her one loaf and kept the other.
This morning I made a batch of Grateful Bread for Josue.
Sondra Ashton
HWC: Looking out my back door
August 21, 2025
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