How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [48]
¾ cup milk
1 T honey
½ cup lukewarm water
1 tsp dry yeast
¾ cup water
1 T salt
1 cup sourdough starter
1⁄3 cup oil
2 cups white flour
6–7 cups whole-wheat flour
Scald milk and let stand until lukewarm. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, mix honey into lukewarm water and sprinkle yeast over the top. Let stand for 10 minutes. Mix milk with ¾ cup of water, add salt, sourdough starter, and oil. Pour into yeast/water mixture and stir well. Add white flour and stir, then begin adding wheat flour 2 cups at a time. When a rough ball has formed, cover with a damp towel and let stand for 20 minutes.
Turn the dough onto a floured surface and begin to knead with firm, sure strokes, until the dough feels smooth and elastic, about 12–15 minutes. Put the dough into an oiled bowl and turn until the entire surface is oiled. Cover with a damp towel and put in a draft-free spot to rise until doubled in bulk, usually an hour to an hour and a half.
Turn the dough out again onto a floured surface and punch it down. Let it rest for 20 minutes, then knead again for 5–8 minutes. Divide into 2 large-size loaves and put each into a well-oiled pan to rise again for another hour. Bake in a 350-degree oven for 1 hour, or until loaves are golden brown and pull away from the sides of the pan. Tip out onto wire racks and let cool.
My mother came back on Saturday, a few days before my birthday, as promised, and took me to shop at Cinderella City mall, which had a whole area in the basement where the shops all looked like a medieval village. I loved it down there, and my mom knew it. I didn’t want clothes, so she let me pick out earrings, some cute socks with toes, and two records, which I was pretty sure was a way to tell me she was sorry for her fit in the record store with Jonah, not that she said so. I bought Cyndi Lauper’s She’s So Unusual, and then, thinking about what Jonah had said about his favorites, a Rolling Stones album with a zipper on the cover. My mom said, “I love that record,” which almost made me put it back, but I didn’t.
She never said a single thing about our big fight, or the fact that I was now talking seriously with two couples about adoption, or even if I could come home on my birthday, which was the next Wednesday. Every year, my birthday was always the same: a big party at the pool, then tacos and strawberry shortcake with everybody. I kept wondering if she was going to take me home as a surprise, but when we got back to Poppy’s, she hugged me really hard and said, “I can’t wait until you’re home again. I love you.”
I managed not to cry until she was out of sight down the road, and then, because I didn’t want even Poppy to know how stupid I was for hoping, I went to the garden. There were squashes now, yellow and green, and tiny balls of pumpkins along the fence, and cherry tomatoes and big green tomatoes. I kicked at weeds with the toe of my sandal, and pretty soon one of the barn cats came out—stalking me through the corn, reaching out to spat my foot, then dashing into the shadows. It was a little orange-and-white ball of fluff with the prettiest face you ever saw. Some of the barn cats were skittish, but this one didn’t mind being picked up. I captured him and put him on my shoulder, listening to him purr.
It was July. The baby would be born at the end of August and I could finally go home. In four days, I would be sixteen.
I could not imagine being lonelier.
Poppy made my tacos and strawberry shortcake on the big day. Nancy came down from Denver to share the celebration, and her present to me was a book about Paris breads and an apron with Boulanger—which meant “baker”—embroidered across the chest in script. I pretended to be cheered up by their singing and presents and by opening the gifts my mother had left. There was a bracelet Steph wove at camp and a small