For an extra credit assignment, I was asked to respond to the statement: "Everyone has a gift." I knew immediately what I wanted to write about.
My essay was chosen was one for which a follow-up presentation was requested, for additional credit. Since I knew that I was not going to be in attendance for the last week of classes (as graduating seniors at Caltech get the last week of term off, and I had made arrangements to be in Rochester for Debra's graduation ceremony), I decided to make a video presentation, and I'd like to share it with all of you. Enjoy!
My fiancée, Debra, has a gift. Her gift is the art of baking bread. In fact, thinking about it now, her gift started the story that we like to tell most. It’s the essence of what brought us together as a couple. At times, it is what has kept us together. It always puts a smile on my face to tell people our story. Telling people about us allows me to share more of Debra’s gifts and in turn, my own.
Debra and I met on the Island of Misfit Toys. No, really, we met at an educational center in the city of Rochester, New York, where it seemed as though they only employed the slightly eccentric teachers and tutors, such as ourselves. One day, as we were taking a break from tutoring math, Debra began talking about her love of bread baking. I piped into the conversation, saying that I loved bread, too. This resulted in us agreeing that we both had a common carbohydrate, and we should get married. So, we are.
Just kidding. Not about the “getting married” bit. That part is true; after I graduate, we are having a sunset wedding in the Adirondacks. I simply meant that our relationship is about more than just our mutual love of bread. That being said, Debra brought me a loaf of her bread the next day, so that I could try it for myself. It was delicious. I ate the whole thing over the course of my shift. The crust was crisp, yet just slightly flaky and forgiving, and the interior was soft and fluffy. Despite how light and almost creamy it was, it did not dissolve in my mouth, instead providing a fantastic chew that slowly released the pleasing sourness of its preparation. Most importantly, I could taste the flour, the salt, the water, and the yeast. Better yet, I could taste nothing more. It was pure, simple, and delightful. I had to have more.
In continuing my relationship with Debra, I got to watch her make bread. She explained to me what a sourdough starter was, and how it needed to be cared for. When she pulled her starter out of the refrigerator, she would talk to her as she poured the amount she needed into her bread bowl. In return, she would feed her roughly the amount she had borrowed in fresh flour and water. Next, she reached for her salt, an equally valued ingredient. This she would mix into warm water that she knew she could trust, and would add this to her starter, stirring with a fork to wake up the yeast. As bubbles appeared, and the mixture smelled like beer, I watched her thank her starter for her continued servitude.
This is the first of many stages at which she can check the progress of her journey, and indeed, she is always in constant communication with her bread, whether by stirring, talking, poking, prodding, feeling, kneading, weighing, or tapping. Everything has its rhythm and everything has its place, when Debra is baking. She wears her baking shirt, a simple cotton T-shirt with a picture of her son on the front, showing the wear of many sessions of baking, notably adorned with holes and the telltale remains of dried bread dough. But, even in her routine, she is always listening to what she is working with, as if asking her bread what it needs. She is generous with the flour if the day is more humid, and softer with her knead if her starter seems extra lively. Her attentive patience is always rewarded nearly a full day after she begins, with two loaves of fresh sourdough bread, cool enough to the touch to be sliced, lightly dressed with butter, and enjoyed.
“If it can cry, I can feed it.” This is one thing that Debra will probably share about herself within five minutes of meeting you. While this may be fine for babies, this does not bode well for houseplants. Our housecats have also, for better or worse, been on the short end of this saying. Sourdough starters also find themselves on the silent end of the spectrum, however it is through this seemingly unfortunate characteristic of Saccharomyces cerevisiae that I found my own love of bread baking.
Early on in our relationship, Debra entrusted me with the job of diligently feeding her sourdough starter. As she noticed my fascination with her gift begin to grow, she offered to teach me how to bake bread. After much practice and diligence, I had learned the signs of what to look for when baking bread. I could put together 700g of flour, 500g of starter, 250g of water, 15g of salt, and with ten minutes here, eight minutes there, eight hours here, four hours there, and thirty-five minutes at 200 °C, produce two loaves of bread. However, it took even longer for me to really learn how to communicate with the dough, and come to understand it. Through bread baking, I learned how to feel, and I learned how to be flexible with my own routine. But, most importantly, I learned to appreciate Debra for who she is, and the many gifts she has.
When I came back to Caltech in January of this year to finish my bachelor’s degree, Debra made the journey with me. The next day, we stopped at a grocery store, and picked up a packet of organic yeast. We returned to my house, and created a sourdough starter together. Although Debra is back in Rochester, I believe a part of her is still with me in the glass jar in my refrigerator. With the exception of one loaf of bread that we bought together to have while our starter was first maturing, I have not bought a single loaf of bread while I have been here, though I eat at least one slice of bread most every day. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
About once every two weeks, I walk into my kitchen and don my baking apron, a firehouse red canvas apron with white cord that Debra made for me as both a Christmas and going away present (her son received a similar apron made with the leftover material). I pull my starter out of my refrigerator, telling her stories, like how her mother’s name is an anagram for “bread,” as I pour out what I need, and feed her in return. And, as the journey continues through its stages, I reflect on the development of my own gift – Debra’s gift to me, really – and all of the joy that has come with it.
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