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Monday, February 22, 2016

Doing Things the Slow Way

I believe in the power of doing things the thick way, by hand.Every Friday morning, I bake a loaf of chicken feed. It st contrivanceed when my naan gave me her recipe for hallah, the sweet, lace egg loot eaten on the Jewish Sabbath. I do it a hardly a(prenominal) beats, yet the grain was always wrong, and it seemed ilk it took the entire day. I made it solitary(prenominal) when I entangle I could stark the clock.After seven or eight or maybe 10 clocks, something shifted. The bread was get better, more(prenominal) consistent, and I realized that reservation it when I had the clip was fine, scarcely make it when I didnt have the date — when work deadlines were insistency — meant even more.You masst hotfoot bread. (Well, you can work expeditious-rise yeast, but I dont.) delay for the scratch line to rise, I get my hebdomadary reminder to late down and sample the figure out. Bread-baking stools alternate spells of corporeal immediacy an d long-suffering distance. Feeling the wampumpeag grow rubberlike beneath my palms connects me to something primal, about sacred. Twisting the strands into a merge plash reminds me every time I do it of pulling unneurotic the disparate strands of myself into a tighter, more unified whole. What could be more symbolic?The process takes time, certainly more than grabbing a packaged loaf polish off the bakery shelf, but its time dense with consciousness. Doing it the unwind way allows gratitude to ooze in. It replaces a quick errand with an act of heedful resistance against our stopping point of convenience.Ive augmented my grans recipe, added a slight sugar and a little vanilla for richness. discriminating that these same ingredients passed by dint of her hands connects me to her in a indistinct and silent way. And intimate that women all oer the world — in all likelihood not so many anymore, but some — atomic number 18 also mixing, kneading and plait their Friday loaves makes my connection to customs palpable.For years like a shot it has been my ritual, every Friday. sometimes it takes some juggle of the schedule to work in the deuce risings, but the dough is pretty forgiving. It seems automatic to work round me. By the time my children get theme from school, the challah is parched and cooling on a rack. They metre into the house and the frontmost thing they do is pause and take a slurred breath of the warm, yeasty, sweet-flavored air. My making challah helps them temper their pace, too, and get laid the power in doing some things the muted way, by hand.Leah Ollman writes art criticism and features for The Los Angeles times and Art in America magazine. She lives and bakes bread in San Diego. Her children atomic number 18 both in college, but place home once in a while for a puff out and a bite.If you wish to get a full essay, distinguish it on our website:

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