Back to that bread, the five-minute, no-knead, there-is-no-way-it-can-be-any-good bread.

It is good and I recommend it, but, blast it all, it confounds me! It has made me feel unstable, like my world has been turned upside down and all the truths I hold dear are no longer worth two cents. But here it stands, a delicious bread, happily disregarding the most sacred of bread-baking truths. It is a bread so simple it makes me feel stupid.

That said, this bread, though quite excellent, is not the be-all and end-all. I will continue to make the standard knead-and-rise yeast breads. I will still make my sourdough breads, probably within the next couple days.

Because despite the fact that this bread is called an artisan bread, it doesn’t strike me as being totally authentic, and even though the flavor is pleasing, it doesn’t have the depth of integrity that I associate with sourdoughs. Although every loaf of sourdough doesn’t necessarily have an overpowering sour flavor, they do have a strength about them, a presence, if you will. Kind of like a wrinkly old lady who makes a kick-butt chow-chow, dons a floppy sunhat and a pair of men’s oversized rubber boots when she works in her gardens, and decorates her kitchen with a simple bouquet of wild flowers stuffed haphazardly into a mason jar. Reassuring, uncompromising, able-bodied, and earthy—that’s sourdough.

The five-minute bread is like a Birkenstock-wearing, soy-milk-drinking, Peace Corps volunteer living in West Africa, just a few anemic cacti lining the edge of the dirt yard.

Um, whatever.

Bread personifications and personal bewilderment aside, this is the ideal bread for anyone who breaks out in a sweat and starts biting their nails when they hear mentioned the word “yeast”. It’s a good bread for kids to learn with. It’s a good bread with which to wow your guests. It’s a good bread with which to wow yourself.

So now, go forth into the world, ye Bread Bakers, mix up some dough, with a spoon, yea verily, and do not knead it. Yay.

Five-Minute Bread
Adapted from the article in MotherEarthNews.com, emailed to me by my girlfriend Laurel.

For the first few batches of dough, I recommend using all white flour and then gradually adding the whole wheat so you have a bottom line from which to deviate.

I have not detected a sourdough flavor, though I have yet to keep the dough in the fridge for the full two weeks.

It takes a long time to bake, as in 40-60 minutes. Don’t be afraid to get the crust a nice dark brown color—the inside doesn’t seem to dry out at all. And the bread is best when it’s had a chance to cool for at least thirty minutes; otherwise, it is so moist it’s almost doughy.

A lump of dough makes a spectacular pizza crust. (Update, March 17, 2009: This is now my favorite pizza dough. One batch of this dough makes three large pizza crusts. I like to make two large pizzas for supper and save the leftover dough in the fridge for when I want to make a fast breakfast pizza, or a simple focaccia for an afternoon snack or a lazy Sunday supper.)

3 cups warm water
1 ½ tablespoons yeast
1 tablespoon salt
6 ½ cups white bread flour

Stir together the yeast and water and let rest for about ten minutes. Add the salt and flour and stir until incorporated. Cover the bowl with a towel and let the dough rise till about double. At this point you may bake if you wish, or you may put a shower cap over the container and set it in the fridge, for up to two weeks, cutting off hunks of dough when needed.

(Do not wash your bread bowl when you mix up the next batch of dough; simply stir the leftover bits and pieces of the dough into the new batch—that’s supposed to help it to get a deeper flavor more quickly.)

When you are ready to bake: Cut off a hunk of dough, whatever size you wish, roughly lump it into a ball and set it on a bread board, or cutting board, that has been heavily sprinkled with cornmeal. Sprinkle flour over the loaf, slash it a couple times, and allow it to rest uncovered for 30-45 minutes. (It may be better to slash it immediately before baking, after the rest period, but I’m still testing that one out.)

Place your baking stone on the bottom rack of your oven, and preheat the oven to 425 degrees. When the oven is hot, spritz it heavily with water, slide the loaf from the board onto the hot stone, spritz the oven again, and shut the door. Spritz the oven two more times in the next five minutes, and then keep the oven shut for the next fifteen minutes at which point you can check the loaf and rotate it as needed. Continue baking the loaf for about a total of 45-60 minutes, or until it is dark brown all over.

Miss Becca Boo somehow twisted her hair all around a comb.

Mr. Handsome had to de-hair the comb, strand by strand, using a toothpick.

It was very painstaking and we thought it would take hours, but after a few minutes the comb fell free.

I learned, post-event, that Yo-Yo and a friend had climbed out his bedroom window and walked on the metal roof around to my bedroom window, crawled in through my bedroom window, and then walked down the hall and back into Yo-Yo’s room. They said they wanted to surprise the girls. Did I mention that it was raining outside?

This bit of dare-devilry does not really surprise me since Mr. Handsome has told me how he and his brothers used to see who could get from one end of their old country farmhouse to the other without touching the ground and from the outside. The game involved lots of trees and roofs. Could it be that games like that are hardwired into their chromosomal make-up?

Upon waking early one morning, Miss Becca Boo went downstairs and painted her black fingernail with red nail polish. Now we’re not sure what the nail is supposed to look like anymore, so we keep a band-aid on it and pretend everything’s just fine.

Sweetsie, who is learning to wipe herself when she poops, gave the commode an overdose of toilet paper, causing me to throw a minor fit as I retrieved the sodden mass of TP from the (used and non-flushed) toilet. I had to flush the toilet paper down in increments (granted, only two). And then I made Sweetsie agree to call me from now on so I could watch her as she wiped herself.

While I was otherwise occupied in my living room, visiting with some neighbors who had dropped by, Yo-Yo and Miss Becca Boo made ready to repel out of the girls’ bedroom window. They tied a rope to the bedframe, opened the window … and chickened out. (Could it be possible that they have been endowed with a small bit of common sense after all?) Then Yo-Yo went outside and tried to climb up the rope, but didn’t get very far. Or so he said. I, blissfully unaware of my progeny’s escapades, fully enjoyed my pleasant neighborly chat.

Miss Becca Boo’s rest time art projects sometimes get a little out of hand.

While frying up a mess of bacon, I turned from the counter just in time to witness The Baby Nickel cram a large piece of raw bacon into his mouth as fast as he could. I stomped my feet and hollered, unable to do anything because my hands were all bacon-y themselves, and Mr. Handsome swooped down and fished the slimy blubber out of the ornery child’s mouth.

Miss Becca Boo, while poking the fire with the metal poke-y stick (I told her to do so), somehow managed to get it wedged down in the grate. There we were, woodstove door open, pok-y stick stuck, and Mr. Handsome at work. Yo-Yo came to the rescue, and after much maneuvering and spilling of ashes, wiggled it free. Like father, like son.

The kids were playing hide-and-seek. I heard some noises in the bathroom and went to investigate. Miss Becca Boo was standing by the washing machine, cheeks sucked in, trying to keep back a smile. I lifted the lid and there was Yo-Yo Boy. “This is totally not cool, but don’t move. I’m gonna take a picture,” I yelled.

And then The Baby Nickel climbed into the laundry basket,

and was lifted upright by his big sisters.

Sweetsie smears much of her Christmas lip gloss all over her pillowcases, but mostly she just sucks her thumb, listens to music, and roars really loud if anyone looks at her cross-eyed.

When I went in to check on Miss Becca Boo one night, I discovered that she had fallen “asleep” wearing a headlamp.

She must have a deep abiding fear of the dark.

The Baby Nickel is still into cross-dressing.

I’m experimenting with a new bread recipe. This may strike you as rather odd, considering that I already have so many bread recipes that I like. Why in the world would I need another one? I don’t, really. And besides, who said anything about needing a new recipe? Not me, that’s who.

My reasons for this latest experiment are these: I like baking bread and if there is something good out there then I certainly want to have it tucked securely under my belt. And, if it’s not any good, than I’ll chalk it up as a learning experience. I have had lots and lots of learning experiences. It would appear that I am quite the learned gal. However, I also have a bundle of good bread recipes under my belt. So there.

This new recipe (the link was emailed to me by my girlfriend Laurel) is touted as being a Five-Minute Bread. When I read that, Skepticism, that little-bodied, big-headed creature with the buggly eyes who lives somewhere around my spleen, reared its fussy head and took a gander at the computer screen. Ha! This is SO stupid. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, fast about good bread. Good bread, QUALITY bread, takes time and energy. It may be easy, yes, but fast? I don’t THINK so.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and continued reading. This was hard to do, considering that it took so long to load each new page of the article (I think there were something like twelve pages), but after the first page, my two feelers, Curiosity on the right and Interest on the left, start to wriggle up out of the top of my scalp, the part right above my worry-creased forehead, and poke around, gently buzzing, and then I just had to continue reading, for their sakes if for nobody else’s.

Hm, could this possibly work? I tapped my tooth with my index finger. There was only one way to find out.

Sucker! Fool!

I drew in a big breath, fondly patted Skepticism on the head , and walked over to the kitchen counter where I quickly (but of course) mixed up the water, yeast, salt, and flour (only four ingredients) with a spoon, no kneading necessary—Red Flag Alert! shrieked Skepticism—and then slid the bowl into the fridge where it would sit, slowly developing a sourdough flavor (yeah, right—you’re SUCH a goose) for up to two weeks, or until I decided to bake a loaf.

That was yesterday. Today I decided to bake.

I retrieved the bowl of dough from the fridge, cut off a blob of the bubbly mass, lumped it into a boule-like form, slashed the top, and let it rest at room temperature on a heavily floured and cornmeal-ed board for about 45 minutes. Then I baked it. This is what I pulled out of the oven.

I grinned from ear to ear, but Skepticism, who had wormed around till he was perched on my right hip, harrumphed, lips pursed and eyes all squinty. I cut a piece, ate it, and then fed a bite to Skepticism. Too doughy, he kvetched. Yes, it is a bit doughy, I admitted, but this is the first baking. A little more time in the oven would probably do the trick. My, but the crust is delicious, don’t you think? A mixture of chewy, caramel, and crispy.

There is no sourdough flavor whatsoever. Well now, really! I knew better than to expect that. We mixed up the dough only yesterday. Give it another seven to ten days and it may develop a hint of sourness. Just you hush up.

It’s too salty. Oh, good heavens! Maybe it is, but we can fix that. Hush now!

And then I ate almost the rest of the loaf myself, making lots of smacking noises and not sharing even a crumb with the little stinker. He, naturally, remained diffident, though I couldn’t help but notice he was watching my every move out of the corner of his eye.

The dear little sourpuss; I am rather fond of him.

I would type up the whole recipe for you right now, but Skepticism might have convulsions. And skeptical convulsions in the general area of my spleen aren’t that much fun. So I think I’ll wait till after a couple more baking sessions, after Skepticism’s belly has been stuffed and his whiny voice shushed, before I pass you this potentially doozy-of-a-bread recipe. Of course, if you’re dying of curiosity, you could go check out the link for yourself any old time, day or night.

On second thought, you better look it up at night when your inner skeptic (that is, if you happen to be gifted/cursed with one) is more likely to be taking a snooze.