July 18, 2024

 Rusty Log

Stardate -299546.26

Perth Ontario: temperature 24.5 humidity 54%

Basic kneads : temperature 29.4 humidity 71%

Another sold out day. It has only been 9 days since the official launch and we are exceeding expectations. The people of Perth have welcomed us with such enthusiasm and positivity that all the doubts I harboured over the past few months in preparation and planning seem to have faded away. We knew the town needed a bread bakery, but I didn’t know how bad it really was. We are close to producing twice my original forcast, what we called a Full Run during testing. Each day we have increased the amount of loaves baked and the quality of those loaves and batches are improving as well with fewer burnt bottoms and better proofs and springs prior to and during the bake. Our rolling is also getting faster and we have started to settle into a rhythm of Yoshi concentrating on the ovens as I hammer through the rolling and proofing. That is not to say we have reached my ideal routine or quality,  but for a week and a half I can see that we are well on our way. Next week we will be welcoming the new   quarter master to the crew with hopes that it will quicken the daily mix’s speed and get us home to our loved ones sooner ever evening.

What is it about fresh bread that so many of us connect to? Sure there is the smell, the warmth, taste and satisfaction but I think there may be something deeper. I remember coming home from school on rare occasions to the smell of bread as soon as I walked through the front door. My mother would insist that it was for dinner and that my siblings and I would have to wait, but I also remember her cutting us thick slices as we stood around her in the kitchen, the 5 of us kids, back packs still on or pilling up in the front hall. She knew that fresh from the oven was the best way and by dinner time it just wouldn’t be the same. She would slice us each a thick cutting with a wooden handled bread knife, likely the same one her mother used when she was a child. Then came the butter as it melted, seeping into the crumb of the loaf, still steaming and tempting us to as for another. 

Rarely would any be left by the time my father got home and dinner was served. But I don’t think that mattered. My mother was proud of the fruits of her labours, and of the fact that she found time in the day to bake something so special for her family. Over the years I have certainly learned to appreciate the time and effort that goes into such a feat. I often say that baking bread once a week is more difficult than baking it every day. Once that rhythm is found and harnessed it becomes second nature, techniques are developed and improved, better bread is made as bellies continue to fill up, spoiling dinners and leaving nothing but crumbs on the counter and a cutting boards in the sink.