For sometime I’ve wanted to write about the rougher side of the gypsy life style. We have our bad days. However I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and come up with a coherent essay with all the ins and outs of what makes life on the road tough. So instead I’ll share today’s story.
Here I am in my sister-in-laws spacious kitchen. Steve is upstairs. The house is quiet. Time to bake bread. I’ve looked forward to this moment for months. Let’s see what bread recipes do I have saved on the computer? Ewww nothing that suits me. I want my Enchanted Broccoli Forest and I want it NOW. I’ve owned this cookbook for fifteen years but only started using it in the year before we became vagabonds. It has a lengthy tutorial about bread baking. Tons of instructions that answer every situation plus enough options that you walk away feeling like you’ve created something of your own in the baking process.
Surely, surely this is on the web somewhere. It’s not. There are, of course, countless recipes for baking bread in every conceivable way but none of them are familiar. And that is what I want; the familiar. Sometimes I miss the way I lived, not the place, definetely not the place but the way, I love my old habits. I’ve learned that.
Anyway Enchanted Broccoli is about three hundred yards away from the kitchen where I stand. Through the pasture, that is now part of my brother’s lawn and up my granny’s hill and down into her basement where we’ve stashed what little “stuff” we’ve kept. I’ve already made a few trips into that basement in the past couple days. I made Steve haul out my beautiful blue bicyle just for me to stare at for a few days. Even so, it feels ridiculous to go digging for a cookbook that I’ll only have to put back in a few weeks. But still I want MY Enchanted Broccoli Forest. I stand with the computer on the counter, crouched over it, knees locked, barely breathing as I surf and surf for a recipe that feels right. I give up this pose before it leads to me blacking out in the kitchen. As fussy as I am I realize that wouldn’t help. Finally I settle on a very basic recipe, that leaves lots of room for interpretation.
I mix, I knead, the house smells great, the bread is alright. Life goes on. I’m going to New Zealand. I’m excited about that. Steve is making lunch now. He hates the toaster oven. He misses our panini press.