Baking is not a usual thing for an Asian who only eats rice and noodle all her life. Plus, she does not know how to cook.
First, a tremendous amount of motivation was summoned in a forgetful and chaotic weekend, when I decided to break my norm and try something “dangerous”.
I have never used a gas baking stove before. This added up the anxiety with the fact that my finger was burnt once when I played with my American friend’s stove in her house.
In Vietnam, we walk out on the street, and the bread stands are there. We spend about 20 cents to 7 USD for a loaf of bread from a simple street baguette to an artisanal bread. We do not have a baking tradition.
It means I have to put effort into moving myself to make bread.
“Do you know that yeast makes the flour rise?” my boyfriend told me and asked me to poke the dough once he made bread for me. “Rising” opened my world limit to another horizon.
I am about to create that horizon again when he is away. I look at the bubble in the sugar water that the yeast made and wonder what to do next. Putting all flour in, I start kneading the dough. After five hours, the size is doubled. I made it — my new horizon!
By poking it, my finger leaves a mark on the white surface. The dough feels warm and happy. My heart was moved. “The bread is living. It is a living thing. It is a little love I created,” I whispered those words my mind when putting on the fire.
