Of Bees and Bonnets

In the course of my life thus far I have burnt the candle at both ends for many reasons. These range from tossing and turning anxiously over an impending exam or presentation, to other, more pleasant forms of midnight exertions.  Yet until last night I had never before experienced cooking induced insomnia.

It was already late, a waxing moon flitting among cobwebbed clouds, by the time I had tucked my freshly kneaded dough into the pans and left it to rise.  I showered quickly and then tucked myself into bed, hoping for a good night’s sleep before an early start for work the next morning.  Alas, as I shut my eyes and tried to release the day’s care, obsessive thoughts and imaged jostled in my mind. Sourdough . . . bubbles . . . fermentation . . . had I kneaded the dough enough? . . . it was rather moist . . . would seven hours be enough rising time? . . .or too long? . . . perhaps the temperature of the kitchen was too cold? . . . where might the warmest spot in the house be? . . . maybe I should set my alarm for an hour earlier so I could bake the loaves before work? But that would mean I wouldn’t get much sleep . . . a mere . . . five hours!  For the love of Jesus, how is it already 12:45 AM?  So much for that 12 mile run on my training schedule for tomorrow. It would be an awful slog. Damn!

Scowling at the darkened world, I gave up trying to sleep and shuffled into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Glancing at the cloth covering the loaves I did a double take.  Was that a bulge under the tea towel? I hurried over and lifted the blue cotton. Yes! The dough had expanded measurably.  My mind at rest, I returned to bed and somehow slipped through the iron bars of consciousness into a weird world of dreams, most of which featured sourdough loaves in varying states of completion.

Several hours later as a I fumbled for another cup of tea, this one by the slate light of dawn, the dough had risen wonderfully. It bulged over the tops of the loaf tins, jiggling like jelly as I maneuvered them onto an oven rack. “Now please don’t let them over cook,” I begged my mother, as she wafted about the kitchen bedraggled by sleep and ensconced in a dressing gown. I fixed her with a glare that suggested epic tantrums and dramatic accusations should she fail to guard the loaves well. Then I rushed off to work.

One hour later I couldn’t resist. Picking up the phone I dialed home. “So, how are they?” I asked with bated breath.

“You’re calling about your bread?” Mum’s tone was half amused, half defensive. “Well they’re fine, of course.”

“They’re done?”

“Yes.”

“And they didn’t collapse during baking?”

“No.”

“Great. Fantastic. Thank God. I’ll see you later.”

I hung up the receiver and turned around. “My bread. It worked!” I beamed at a bewildered coworker. She gave me an odd look, pregnant with concern for my mental stability.

I shrugged. What's she looking at? Isn’t the pursuit of a heavenly loaf of sourdough cause enough for sleep deprivation, anxiousness, and general obsessive behavior? Well, come to think of it, perhaps that is a debatable question.