Knead
The lumpy beige liquid stops its quadrille swirling and waits,
expectantly. It knows what comes next. The first cup of flour creates a
white mushroom cloud and is easily assimilated, creating a half solid
acquainted with craft projects and messy children with cottonballs. The
second cup creates a stiffer glue, more like baby cereal behind small
ears and on chair arms.
The third cup becomes difficult. The whisk must be removed, it can no longer properly stir the liquid and solid together. The wooden spoon is introduced and it produces swift authority over the third and fourth cups. All succumb and mix, becoming thicker and cumbersome.
With the addition of the fifth cup, also comes the removal from the mixing bowl. It’s too thick and heavy for any spoon now. So flour and dough are thrown on the countertop, like a wrinkly granny mask from Halloween. The thing to do now, is knead.
“Knead the dough for 5 to 10 minutes or until ready.”
Until ready.
Take the dough and squish it. Not like playdough, but like a down quilt. Smoosh it. Fold it in on itself, over and over again. Roll it, move it, press it. Add cup six when ready. The feel of the dough begins to change. The word ‘knead” always catches me. I will start to spell “need” and remember my homophones seconds too late.
Knead: to work (moistened flour or clay) into dough or paste with the hands.
Need: require (something) because it is essential or very important.
I wonder how often the words are simultaneous. Not synonymous, but simultaneous. How often do I need to be kneaded? How kneaded to I need to be? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Until ready? When is that?
I crush the dough beneath my hands. My hands are pathetically weak, but they never hurt when I knead dough. The wrists may crack and ache afterwards, but in the kneading process, they always feel strong. Maybe that’s why I like baking. Maybe that’s why I like to bake when I’m stressed, because my hands feel strong and can just tell when the dough is “ready.” Because regardless of my issues, I can knead out my needs into dough, which is a good example for how I should respond to kneading.
I’m pretty mushy. I’m pretty beige and lumpy. I’m sometimes gooey and sometimes dry, needing a master baker’s skilled touch of extra flour or extra water. And then the massage part comes. At first it’s ok, the shortening lumps need to be worked out of my legs and the new flour worked in to the whole. Not bad. I can take it. But when the dough is mixed and the flour all in, then comes the working out “until ready.” You have to knead until the dough is smooth and not sticky to touch. You have to knead until the dough doesn’t stick to the counter or between the knuckles. You have to knead until the dough folds in on itself without protest and, with rather sci-fi-like abilities to undulate and morph at the will of the hands, become one lump of ready dough.
The problem is, I get to a stable state and stop morphing. I stop complying. I stop being pliable. I become stiff and resistant. Too much flour on the table maybe. The Hands are trying to knead and I claim a need to stop, as if there’s an emergency brake on the countertop. Don’t! I can’t. STOP! Don’t ask this of me. We’re done.
From fear? From distrust? From disobedience? From selfishness? From weakness? From the unwillingness to let go of control? All the above. And probably more.
The kneading continues until ready. Pressed down, but not destroyed? The round ball of simple, sweet-smelling dough that gets to nap in a warm bowl to rise to new heights, is so satisfying. It’s so plastic, smooth and you just know, it’s ready. After all that work, after a good nap, after a trip to 325 degrees Fahrenheit and back, that dough will be the tastiest bread ever. The most delicious dinner rolls ever or the most famous of cinnamon rolls. And it’s always worth the work of kneading.
1/2014
The third cup becomes difficult. The whisk must be removed, it can no longer properly stir the liquid and solid together. The wooden spoon is introduced and it produces swift authority over the third and fourth cups. All succumb and mix, becoming thicker and cumbersome.
With the addition of the fifth cup, also comes the removal from the mixing bowl. It’s too thick and heavy for any spoon now. So flour and dough are thrown on the countertop, like a wrinkly granny mask from Halloween. The thing to do now, is knead.
“Knead the dough for 5 to 10 minutes or until ready.”
Until ready.
Take the dough and squish it. Not like playdough, but like a down quilt. Smoosh it. Fold it in on itself, over and over again. Roll it, move it, press it. Add cup six when ready. The feel of the dough begins to change. The word ‘knead” always catches me. I will start to spell “need” and remember my homophones seconds too late.
Knead: to work (moistened flour or clay) into dough or paste with the hands.
Need: require (something) because it is essential or very important.
I wonder how often the words are simultaneous. Not synonymous, but simultaneous. How often do I need to be kneaded? How kneaded to I need to be? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Until ready? When is that?
I crush the dough beneath my hands. My hands are pathetically weak, but they never hurt when I knead dough. The wrists may crack and ache afterwards, but in the kneading process, they always feel strong. Maybe that’s why I like baking. Maybe that’s why I like to bake when I’m stressed, because my hands feel strong and can just tell when the dough is “ready.” Because regardless of my issues, I can knead out my needs into dough, which is a good example for how I should respond to kneading.
I’m pretty mushy. I’m pretty beige and lumpy. I’m sometimes gooey and sometimes dry, needing a master baker’s skilled touch of extra flour or extra water. And then the massage part comes. At first it’s ok, the shortening lumps need to be worked out of my legs and the new flour worked in to the whole. Not bad. I can take it. But when the dough is mixed and the flour all in, then comes the working out “until ready.” You have to knead until the dough is smooth and not sticky to touch. You have to knead until the dough doesn’t stick to the counter or between the knuckles. You have to knead until the dough folds in on itself without protest and, with rather sci-fi-like abilities to undulate and morph at the will of the hands, become one lump of ready dough.
The problem is, I get to a stable state and stop morphing. I stop complying. I stop being pliable. I become stiff and resistant. Too much flour on the table maybe. The Hands are trying to knead and I claim a need to stop, as if there’s an emergency brake on the countertop. Don’t! I can’t. STOP! Don’t ask this of me. We’re done.
From fear? From distrust? From disobedience? From selfishness? From weakness? From the unwillingness to let go of control? All the above. And probably more.
The kneading continues until ready. Pressed down, but not destroyed? The round ball of simple, sweet-smelling dough that gets to nap in a warm bowl to rise to new heights, is so satisfying. It’s so plastic, smooth and you just know, it’s ready. After all that work, after a good nap, after a trip to 325 degrees Fahrenheit and back, that dough will be the tastiest bread ever. The most delicious dinner rolls ever or the most famous of cinnamon rolls. And it’s always worth the work of kneading.
1/2014
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