I am susceptible to new hobbies. Once I am enamored of something new, I set to it with a sort of manic fervor until my curiosity is satisfied or until I burn myself out on it and move on. I have learned to recognize my true interests as the ones I am willing to return to subsequent to these overzealous, abortive forays. Baking bread was one of these mini-obsessions. I spent a good six months feverishly baking and reading about baking bread. Of course, I wasn’t interested in starting with the basics; anyone could do that, and besides, I had baked bread with my mother at least a half-dozen times. And so I made baguettes, or other subtle breads that almost invariably involved cranking the oven up as hot as it would go and me sticking my head into it several times during the first few minutes of baking to spritz the sides of the oven with water (steam early in baking = crustier crust). Unfortunately, this phase occurred during the summer. Aside from the obvious unpleasantness of sticking one’s head into a 500 degree oven when the ambient temperature is already above 80, the residual heat alone would leave the kitchen a sweltering inferno for a good six hours afterwards. Freya was typically unamused on my baking days.

Sadly, the results never quite approached the level of quality that I yearned for. And, as I realized that baking bread is labor-intensive and difficult, I became discouraged. Thus, as I grew busy with the onset of 2L at Pitt Law, I let bread baking lapse without much of a fight.

Last week, I decided it was time to resume my bread efforts, but with a more sensible approach. What better way to ease back into it than with a nice, basic white bread? I cheerfully measured, mixed and kneaded, secure in my newfound perspective. As I savored the tactile pleasure of methodically slapping around a big glutinous ball of dough, I reflected on how well my triumphant return to bread baking was shaping up. Then, dough sufficiently kneaded, I set it aside to rise, pleased with my efforts and in heady anticipation of that first bite of freshly baked bread.

Two hours later, I was profoundly disappointed. It didn’t rise. At all. Evidently either the yeast was bad, or I had killed it by proofing it in water that was too hot. Regardless, it was far from a triumphant return to the land of bread-baking.

Me: Hey, Yeast. How ’bout some white bread?

Yeast: No dice.

Me: This. Ain’t. Over.