When Bruce and I met, I was the baker in the family. It stemmed from an awful failure in graduate school: orange breakfast rolls. I was taking an advanced seminar in medieval chivalric romance, it met at 8:00 am, and we grad students agreed to take turns bringing in breakfast to help us get through three hours of Petrarchan references. Also? The professor was a strict, emaciated, no-nonsense type who'd spent her entire adult life crawling around convents in Europe to find a source for one half of Chaucer's Second Nun's Tale. In other words, she wasn't exactly a laugh a minute.
On the week I was up for breakfast, I decided to make this orange breakfast roll recipe I'd found in some cooking magazine--sort of like cinnamon rolls but with candied orange peel and a pinch of ground cardamom sprinkled on the dough before it was rolled up.
I was up until four in the morning trying to get the stuff to rise.
Out of that misfortune came a determination to make yeast work. (Maybe I'd taken in some of that grim single-mindedness from my convent-crawling professor.)
Over the ensuing years, I baked a lot of bread. Before I met Bruce and even after. Because he was at first the typical chef-school type: I cook; I don't bake. (Make sure you say it with a slight sneer.) Except he watched me a few times--and got totally into it. His downfall from the heights of proper cheffery? Making a decent pie crust. But that's another story entirely.
Today he's quite the baker. He whips up fresh bread for dinner--just because.
So on to these simple, homey baguettes we had with soup the other night. I realize I've delayed too long with this story. But consider it proper training for bread-making: lots of patience.
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