Right before fall quarter was over, when everyone was asking everyone else what they had planned for break, I told the world that I will become an artisan bread maker. The day after I got back to Tustin and found out that I was insured for December, I drove to the bookstore and collapsed on the floor of the cooking section, surrounded by amazingly beautiful, painfully heavy books about bread.

Since then, I’ve been dreaming about bread, about flour rising in the air as I throw down a ball of dough, about brushing egg yolk and water on a loaf, about watching my bread magically rise and crackle in the oven.

The things is, all I’ve done so far is dream. But no longer.

An hour and a half ago, I bought my first packet of yeast, and as I type this, I am waiting for my first dough to rise. It’s happening, my friends. I am becoming an artisan bread maker.

The truth is I have no idea what being an artisan bread maker is all about, but I have devised a few rules for myself. I figured that to be able to boast about being an artisan bread maker, I must have the sufficient knowledge and experience under my belt. I also figured, with Gina’s help, that sufficient knowledge and experience will come from, at the very least, 42 loaves of bread. (42 being the number of life.)

Now, I’m having a bit of trouble defining what a “loaf of bread” is as it applies to my situation. Just the other day, I made a loaf of banana bread. It’s bread, yes, but it’s not the kind of bread that I envisioned in my dreams. The bread that I think of upon mention of the word “artisan” is the kind that is lovingly kneaded to perfection. So… 42 loaves of bread, dough kneaded? Or 42 loaves of bread, dough unnecessary? A dilemma.

No matter, my journey as a bread maker has begun.