Kneadless to Say

My Haphazard Journey into Bread Baking

(as told by someone who thinks baking is basically witchcraft)

So, I decided to bake bread. Because obviously, I’m a domestic goddess now. Flour, water, yeast—how hard could it be? It's not like generations of bakers have perfected this over centuries or anything.

Let’s be clear: I am not a baker. I’m not even a consistent cook. My talents lie more with cooking—where there’s wriggle room, and creativity is not only welcomed but required. Baking, on the other hand, is a rigid, flour-dusted discipline where one rogue gram of salt can lead to heartbreak. But I thought, why not give bread a go? Everyone on Instagram is doing it.

Yeast, the Unreliable Frenemy

I kicked things off with gusto and a recipe I found from someone who definitely owns linen aprons and harvests their own rosemary. The recipe said to “prove the yeast,” which sounded like something Sherlock Holmes would do.

I mixed the yeast with warm water and a spoonful of sugar, then waited. And waited. Nothing. Not even a sad bubble. After twenty minutes of staring at beige sludge, I checked the packet. Expired. In 2020. I blamed it on the universe and went to buy fresh yeast like the responsible adult I pretend to be.

Flour, Flour Everywhere

Second attempt. Fresh yeast foamed up beautifully—clearly it was alive and ready to party. I tossed in the flour, salt, and water, and got to kneading like I was on Bake Off. Within minutes, the dough had fused to every surface of my kitchen—my hands, the counter, even poor Woody, who naively wandered in for a sniff. He left with dough eyebrows and a lot of questions.

The recipe said “add more flour if it’s too sticky,” which I took as licence to coat my entire kitchen in it. At one point it looked like a snowstorm had hit just my countertop.

Rise-ish and Shine

I shoved the dough in a mixing bowl, covered it with a tea towel, and placed it on top of the oven—because that’s where the warmth lives, apparently. I prayed that the tea towel wouldn't infuse it with whatever comforting laundry smell it had been clinging to since last week. Lavender and yeast is not a classic pairing.

An hour later, I peeked and—holy carbs—it had doubled in size. I punched it down, which was incredibly satisfying, shaped it into what vaguely resembled a loaf, and let it rise again while I cleaned flour off Woody’s ears.

Bake It Till You Make It

I cranked up the oven, slid the doughy baby in, and immediately panicked that I’d forgotten some crucial step. As it baked, my home filled with the most glorious smell. I opened the oven with dramatic flair and was greeted by a loaf that looked like it had been fossilised. Crust like concrete, inside still wet. A cruel trick.

At this point, I considered taking up something easier. Like nuclear physics.

The Redemption Loaf

Determined to have my smug slice of homemade bread, I tried one more time. I re-read the recipe like I was revising for an exam. I measured everything. I didn’t rush. I let the dough rise properly—again in the bowl, again on top of the oven, again fearing lavender contamination.

And guess what? The loaf came out golden, crusty, and—dare I say it—fluffy. I squealed. I danced. I took twelve photos and posted on various socials hoping for some validation.

Moral of the Story?

Bread baking is chaos wrapped in flour, but once you get it right, it's wildly satisfying. You’ll battle sticky dough, rogue tea towels, and your own impatience. But you’ll also experience the quiet thrill of slicing into something you made with your own two flour-covered hands.

Just keep Woody Spaniel 

( Ratatouille Little Chef ) out of the kitchen 

This is the recipe I use:

https://www.bakingmad.com/recipes/classic-white-bread-loaf