Bread & Butter
April 2020
I watch from waist-high as those big hands fold chunks of butter into supple dough, pushing and pulling, strong knuckles leaving imprints that slowly disappear. Pale, pale dough against his palms, stretching and folding, calloused fingertips, hairy arms. I remember in scenic snapshots. Large shoes in front of the stovetop, heat and smoke and dark hair and pink in the apples of our cheeks. Pushing and pulling; flour plumes, floats into the air, the butter melts away.
Mankind’s first breads are ancient, prehistoric. The earliest remains suggest a simple recipe: water and ground grains stirred together and heated until solid on hot stones, no leavening, no fat, until a tough flatbread was formed. Perhaps it drew people close as it sat cooking against the heat, to bask in the sunlight and breathe in the smell. Perhaps it brought them together.
I can feel the dough in my own hands now, the heavy sinking weight of it spilling over the sides of my tentative fingers as I struggle to hold it together. The rumble of familiar laughter reverberates through his chest, warm like tropical sunsets, and I turn to look at him. The stainless-steel surface beneath my wrists quivers.
He reaches over and takes the dough from me, splits it into three. Take one side, and move it to the middle, he says, laying the dough over itself. Then take the other side… into the middle. I watch with wide eyes the way the smooth sections intertwine, pliable and pillow-soft. His eyes crinkle at their edges when he smiles.
The first leavened bread was most likely an accident, occurring somewhere in Egypt or the Middle East. A ball of dough left alone for too long, perhaps forgotten, until passing bacteria settled in to consume its sugars. These bacteria produced CO2 as a by-product, forming millions of tiny bubbles in the dough which, during baking, expanded outwards. Puffing up and out, pockets of steam trying to escape.
In the photo, we’re on a ferry in Singapore. Flakes of curry-filled pastry decorate my hands and the corners of my mouth. I’m so small against his side, dressed in all pink, our eyes squinting the exact same way I know my mum used to love. He seems massive compared to me, yet at the same time the photo seems to diminish him, doesn’t bring to mind the details about him I know I’ve forgotten.
(it’s a strange thing, to be aware of the things you don’t remember. To know in your heart there were once cherished things – a deep baritone, fresh wafts of aftershave, the warm weight of a hug – you can no longer call to mind)
The Greeks are credited with the development of the first bakeries, and they ate bread as a daily staple. There were many different kinds, baked with poppy seeds, cheese, or oatmeal; dipped in wine, oil, or honey; for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Their bread was even good enough for the gods. Flatbreads made with wine and olive oil served as divine sacrifices, while some gods received breads baked especially for them. A crescent-shaped loaf was baked in honour of Demeter, the goddess of harvest and agriculture. Smaller rolls with honey and sesame seeds were left as offerings, sticky as they tumbled over jewelled fruits and fatty meats.
The first time I bake bread by myself is amongst the sticky humidity of our last house in Jakarta, the one he never saw, the one to help us forget. Despite the sun that shines bright in the late afternoon sky, the kitchen feels perpetually dark. I have dough dangling from my hands, stretching across my palms, crusting my fingers. It clings to me as I add flour, knead, then add even more. Something has gone wrong somewhere but I know I can fix it. My arms tremble with exhaustion.
The dough rises quickly in the clinging heat, and this feels better, maybe? Hair sticks to the nape of my neck as I fold it into a loaf tin and push it into the oven. It comes out squat and pale and wrong.
Today, bread is everywhere. A household staple in most parts of the world, easily accessible through your local bakery or nearest supermarket. The technological advancements and automation have made bread making an easier, significantly less labour-intensive process. Yet, the creation of a high quality, artisanal loaf still requires a human touch.
I’m alone in my apartment on Lygon Street, all red brick and wooden doors warping in their frames. It’s sometime past sunset and all the lights are on. Flour coats my benchtop and dusts the surface of the smooth dough in front of me. Sweat tickles my hairline; I’m leaning into it, flexing at the shoulder, all my weight into the heel of my palm, rolling motions like ocean tides. The flour settles against my cheeks. It’s a mantra. Push fold turn push fold turn. Time slips by so quickly.
The smell wafts through the small space, yeast and sugar and warmth. Melted butter dribbles down as I brush it onto bubbled crust. The loaf shudders, layers of crust crackling, echoing, creaking, settling like the bones of an old house. I cut myself a slice and watch as the steam escapes.