Baking with Joyce

 I've been baking our bread since the early years of our marriage (1969). Back then, yeast; now (since 1986), sourdough. Those who visit this site may recall that I've written the history of that sourdough starter here more than once.

Just a quick recap. In the summer of 1986, our son Steve and I went to Skagway, Alaska, and Dawson City, Yukon, to pursue my dawning interest in Jack London and The Call of the Wild--a book I'd taught to him the previous year in 8th grade. Also--we were following the diary of my great-grandfather, Addison Clark Dyer, who'd gone on the Klondike Gold Rush about the time London did.

Anyway, in Skagway I bought some sourdough starter--and ever since then I've been baking with it, pretty much once a week (sometimes more)--mostly loaves of bread, waffles, muffins, biscuits, pizza dough. Nothing fancy.

My routine was to feed the dough on Saturday night, then mix and bake with it on Sunday morning.

But then ... Age arrived. And some Disability—some persistent Dizziness.

And after a while, I just couldn't do it any longer.

So, about a year ago, I froze the starter in the weak hope that I might one day get back to it.

And I missed baking horribly.

But then Joyce volunteered to help--no surprise: I know no kinder heart.

So we decided to give it a try. I revived the dough and off we went. I used to do the whole process alone: feed, separate, mix, shape, bake, clean up.

But now we're a team. I feed the dough on Saturday morning. Let it rise all day. Then separate: the starter for next time in its container, the remainder in a bowl for Sunday; both go into the fridge.

Early Sunday a.m., Joyce takes out the baking portion, and we let it warm up for a couple of hours. I get out the initial implements and other things I will need (bowl, etc.).

As it nears mixing time, Joyce sets up a tall chair for me, then puts out the kneading board, the sea salt, the honey, the butter (to melt), the milk (to mix).

I get the dough into the electric mixer; we move the chair (and me!) over to the mixer, where Joyce hands the ingredients to me as I mix them. The last thing she brings: the flours I use, a bit of oat, a lot of whole wheat, a little white. I then use the kneading blade in the mixer; she helps me carry that dough out to the kneading board, where I knead it 100 times, adding a little flour as needed, then put it in a large bowl (that Joyce has greased); Joyce covers it with Saran Wrap, puts it on a rack, and we let it rise for however long it takes—2-3 hours.

During which time I NAP.

Not long after lunch, the dough having risen, I cut it and shape it as needed, then set it aside for Rise #2 in whatever device(s) we’re using. We clean up the kneading/shaping area.

And NAP 2.

Up I rise to pre-heat the oven, then pop in the bread and cross my fingers ... even after all these years, I’m never sure.

What I AM sure of is Joyce’s devotion to this project, to me. I tell her over and over again: “I could not do this without you.” (I couldn’t.) 

And she responds with some form of: “I know how much it means to you.”