Readers Write: Bread

Published in The Sun 

MY HUSBAND’S AFFAIR with bread is no passing fancy brought on by quarantine boredom. His infatuation began years ago when he brewed beer and wondered what to do with the spent grain. For a girl who grew up thinking Wonder Bread was a luxury, making food from leftover beer ingredients sounded about as tasty as eating from the forest floor, but my husband had discovered a passion.

Soon he had a sourdough starter that he fed constantly. Babied, really. He monitored whether “she” was active or dormant and researched what to do with her “discard.” He mastered sourdough waffles, English muffins, pretzels. He scoured baking sites the way some men sneak porn.

Part of my jealousy stems from the knowledge that he’d never have had such success with bread without my help. When we married, he didn’t know a teaspoon was a standard unit of measurement; he’d use the spoon that was “too small for cereal.” Even recently, when he wanted to gloss a crust, he asked me to separate the egg because he was “afraid.”

I admit I’ve enabled this obsession. I’ve allowed purchases of pans, crocks, scrapers, slicers, racks, and even stencils that transform flour dust into bouquets of wheat. At Christmas I ordered him a wood-fired pizza oven. Even I have been fantasizing about the dough.

Mary Beth Stuller
Parkton, Maryland