How I Learned to Love Making Homemade Bread

By Katharine Grubb 

Ka-CLUNK! Ka-CLUNK! Ka-CLUNK!

From my kitchen came a clunking that awoke me from my precious sleep. This better be good, I thought. Since I was a mother of a two-month-old, I had a shoot-first-ask-questions-later type of mentality, especially at this time of night.

The culprit was my bread machine’s bucket, loose from his clips. When the kneading began, it clattered like a jackhammer inside the steel oven. My only solution was to hold the bucket in place with two hands until the kneading cycle stopped, which was a very long ten minutes.

Before bedtime, I had dutifully added the ingredients, set the timer and went to bed, expecting to have a fresh loaf for breakfast for me and my family. I foolishly assumed that only my infant would be reason enough to get me out of bed. I couldn’t think of anything else we could eat for breakfast. So, hold the machine I must.

This was the dough bucket’s second offense. The first was that it contained a tiny hole. If I poured the water in first, it would drip out the bottom. I solved this by putting 1/3 cup of flour in first. But I often forgot this step, made a mess on the counter and ate sub-standard bread.

Between the hole and the loose clips, I had a love/hate relationship with my bread machine. Bread became our most common breakfast since we bought a $9 bread maker from a thrift store. Daily I made bread in the machine, allowing me to completely boycott anything from a store. My family adored it so much, that when another mother came over and took out her loaf of store bought slices to share, my four-year-old daughter, said, “I don’t want that bread, there’s no love in it.”

Within two years, we wore out the thrift store machine and invested in a deluxe two-pound model that came highly recommended. It was this model that beckoned me to the kitchen that night and made me question whatever “love” was there.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep or my post-partum hormones, but I concluded that considering the trouble it took me to overcome the faults of this deluxe model, hand wash it daily, and prepare five or six loaves a week, making it by hand wouldn’t be any more trouble.

The next morning at breakfast, I issued a proclamation: “We are through with bread machine bread!” I swallowed hard and hesitantly stated, “I am going to start making it from scratch!”

My husband applauded the idea. He never shrinks from a challenge and appreciates quality over convenience (perhaps why he married me). He also had no desire to replace a $100 machine.

Should I have made such a statement? Even though I love to cook and I’ve become quite competent since my early days in marriage, I was intimidated by this bread-making idea. One could argue that the last thing a mother of five---especially with one being a newborn---should undertake, is a new project that a family is dependent on.

I decided I’d rather eat my mistakes than humble pie. So, I started collecting recipes and experimenting. In just a short week or so, my 3 a.m. conclusions were proven right. Methodically, I compared the two processes:
With a bread machine, it takes me (when I’m being most efficient) four minutes to read the recipe and fill the bucket. But it takes longer if I’ve forgotten to put in flour to plug up the hole. To meet my family’s needs, I do that at least five times a week. That’s 20+ minutes. That doesn’t count cleaning my bread pan out between loaves.



When I make bread by hand, I can make the dough for a five-loaf batch in 20 minutes also, including kneading. I have many more dirty dishes, but most of them go in the dishwasher (unlike the bread machine) and I only wash out the three big bowls once for every five loaves.

What I had not counted on was the discovery that the greatest difference between hand made bread and bread machine bread is the journey. And what a journey! I never knew how pleasant the details of making bread could be.

Watching yeast in the warm water bubble and expand as it consumes the sugar is fascinating. I marvel that such a tiny, living creature can make such a difference in the texture and size of the bread, not to mention the smell in my kitchen.

When I pour the salt into the white flour, I see two very distinct shades and textures of white, like colors on an artist’s palette. No one sees that in a bread machine.

I can watch the texture change as I stir the oil and water into the whole-wheat flour. I like the feel of the same wooden spoon in my hand as I stir, and the stirring challenges my muscles to endure the ride.

I like that I never make bread without thinking about my Gramma Lucy who, when making rolls in her lonely house, high on a hill in rural Oklahoma, squished them together so they came out kind of tall and skinny. I’m sad I’ll never taste them exactly that way again, no matter how hard I try.

I like watching the dough in the bowls on the stove as they creep up, raising the towel that covers them. It reminds me of my waistline when my shirts stretch over it, making room for a baby.

I cheer with my kids when the rolls come out of the oven, Everybody wants one immediately. With butter. Sometimes jelly too.

I find it comforting that my family eats this bread for breakfast several days a week and that my children are more familiar with me holding a wooden spoon in my hand than a cereal box.

I learn something more about the craft of it every time I bake. It keeps me humble. I like that there are still little discoveries to be made, like that cold water works best when cleaning up.

I can easily measure ingredients and measure time and labor involved but I can’t quantify any of the nuances of my own observations. I also know that it’s just flour, water, salt, oil and yeast and heat, a chemical reaction. But my conclusion is that I’d rather savor the sacrament of bread-making than push a button and hope for the best.

Most importantly, if for no other reason, I love making bread by hand because it’s quiet. Old-fashioned bread can be made in silence. The best things are often made that way. And it's cheap. And it's healthy. And there's no high fructose corn syrup or milk products (my daughter's allergic to dairy) to worry about.

If I can do this, you can too. It takes practice, patience and a willingness to eat your mistakes. The recipe I make for my family is the following, times five.

Honey Oat Bread

1 C warm water (110 degrees is perfect!)
1 TB oil
3 TB honey
1 tsp salt
3-5 C flour
3/4 C oats
2 tsp yeast

In a small bowl, dissolve yeast and honey in warm water. Wait 10 minutes until yeast is foamy and bubbly. Add oil,salt, and 1 C flour. Beat well. Slowly add in remaining flour and oats until dough is easy to knead and not moist.

Turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead until smooth and elastic. (I count to one hundred.) Place in a large, well oiled bowl. Cover, and allow to rise until dough doubles in bulk. This usually takes 90 minutes.

Shape into loaf. Place in greased, 9 x 5 inch pan, turning loaf over in pan to grease top. Allow to rise until dough doubles in bulk. This takes about 1 hour.

Bake at 350 degrees F for 35 minutes. Let cool before slicing.