Thursday, November 17, 2011
As I push and pull at the grinder’s smooth wooden handle, listening to the rhythm of the burs turning and feeling the effort in my arms and legs, I think about how much I take for granted. While we almost never buy bread, I often make it from store bought flour. I scoop out cups of the perfectly white, scentless powder and dump it in the bowl without thought. Such bread only smells of the yeast used to make it light. How different from the flour I’ve ground myself. Each fragrant cup, speckled tan with wheat bran, seems precious. The dough smells of the earth, rich and yeasty. Of course whatever I use home-ground in tastes better, but I’m not sure if it’s the fresh flour or the appreciation I have for it.