When I last left you in the saga-of-the-boule I hadn’t told you whether it was edible or not. I wanted to let the tension hang because nothing sets off my inability to concentrate more than the sound of my baby girl not sleeping when she should be. Well, here’s your answer. It was edible.
But it was a bit, dense, really. I mean dense like a lump of lead. I’m not sure if I overhandled it, didn’t work the dough enough in the mixer, or otherwise screwed up, but today I decided to try again.
This time I worked the dough less, let it rise longer, and it was one day from its original mixing, so the yeast had a bit longer to do its thing.
All that said, I’m pretty sure this is going to be some bomb-ass french toast in the morning. Then we will be on to round three of the journey to make passable boules of French bread so as to not buy loaves of processed shit at the grocery store any longer.
Shit. I just realized there might be some baking experten reading my blog right now who could tell me how to make this boule rise to the glory to which it needs to rise. The recipe I’m using is from NPR’s wonderful The Splendid Table, and you can get to it here. I love input. 🙂
Tell me in the comments if you have any suggestions, especially if you’re a pastry chef, swedish chef, or French baker. Or even if you’re a granny at home with an electric oven. Or a man who bakes after work and has more success. Or anyone. All comments welcome.
It’s January, and every January a large portion of the American populace says “this is the year I will get in shape.”
Well, I’ve gotten in shape before, recently gotten out of shape, and a few months ago I started getting back into shape. I run a few nights a week, though I’ve taken the last couple of weeks off for the holidays. I plan on adding lifting back into the equation for the first time in a couple of years here in the next few days.
A lot of people fail, though. They start with the best of intentions and end up giving up. They haven’t learned the secret of fitness yet. Lie to yourself.
Talk to someone who runs long road races, like half-marathons and marathons. They’ll be all like, omg I love running! Running is the best thing in the world! You don’t need to take those anti-depressants anymore, just start running! Running will make all of your troubles go away! Bullshit.
Running hurts, being out of breath sucks, and there’s nothing intrinsically fun about it. Same with pretty much everything.
Running: Not fun.
Lifting: OK, but makes me puke sometimes.
Yoga: Also OK, also makes me puke sometimes.
Cycling: Hurts the taint.
Rollerblading: It’s not the 90’s anymore, but it hurt then.
The reason people don’t quit these endeavors is because they’re good enough at lying to themselves to make it believable.
It helps if you can lie to yourself and pretend greek yogurt with nuts and honey is just as delicious as a full English breakfast, or that spaghetti squash really is close enough to “pasta” to count (actually,spaghetti squash works in my book.)
I’d say the time when I ate the healthiest was when mommyPrimate and I lived in Korea. You see in Korea you’d often be asked “do you like bread, or rice?” because the good lord above knows that no one could possibly ever like both.
At any rate, the bread available in stores was largely crap, and mommyPrimate became quite the baker making our weekly bread in a tiny little convection oven we bought on GMarket for like $30.
Anyhow, as we approached the new year and became obsessed with The Great British Baking Show (because who isn’t obsessed with it?) I had the thought that maybe if we were going to indulge in the crusty carb-y goodness of breads we should bake them ourselves.
So this morning I manned up and fired up the stand mixer, let my dough proof, misshaped a rough ball, and then called mommyPrimate over to fix it into a nice dough ball, preheated the oven and all that, and slid my first loaf (oh god. “slid my first loaf” heh!) into the oven, and let it go.
This is what came out of the oven, and I don’t think it’s too shabby for my first attempt at bread. Perhaps if I had involved mommyPrimate a little more (and I should have, honestly I’ve never been the best at using my resources effectively) it would have been a bit prettier.
At any rate, the house smells like fresh bread, and my daughter is fighting her afternoon nap with the determination of a Samurai, so I’ll leave you wondering if it turned out edible or not. (It’s still got to cool, calm the heck down.)
I don’t really remember New Year’s Eve last year. We had just had a baby a month earlier, we weren’t getting much sleep, and life was all about survival.
What a difference a year makes. Tonight we managed to watch a NYE countdown with our daughter. She totally didn’t get what was going on, but it doesn’t matter because it was Netflix’s Puffin Rock New Year’s Eve countdown. That shit was brilliant.
Anyway, I just started this blog as a replacement for my old blogs that all seem irrelevant to my life now.
The best one was the travel blog, you can see it here. That was all a long time ago, when we lived in Korea and traveled quite a lot.
The replacement was the oft-depressed sounding “food blog,” that you can see here.
I don’t want such a niche blog anymore. I want to write about whatever the hell I end up writing about. A true creative outlet that might focus heavily on food and places I want to go, but could still be host to a haiku about farts.
Welcome to daddyPrimate, where the everevolvingprimate ended up after moving back to his hometown with his beautiful bride, getting a real job, and having a kid.
What I’m trying to say is…I’m back, wordpress…and this time I’m not going to take myself too seriously.