I am inching closer and closer to real French bread. It isn’t rocket science but it is an equation. Thankfully I’ve become far less agitated when I’m making it. I just saunter into the kitchen like I own the place and Blam, there it goes. Three and a half cups of flour, a packet of yeast, one and three quarters of a cup of lukewarm water and salt. Mix, knead, and walk away.
There’s just nothing to this except the ingredients, a little muscle and time. Well, and heat. I was quite blasé about the bread rising this time and it may have over risen slightly. But the bread was FABULOUS. If I closed my eyes I could see myself in France. Of course, any time I close my eyes I see myself in France in a beret with a red scarf and an insouciant expression on my face as I snap my fingers at the garçon…
As luck would have it, I did not have my phone when I cut it open and it was crispy crunchy on the outside and soft and airy on the inside. I am not sure what I did differently this time. But you can bet that I will be doing this again soon minus the snapping of fingers.
Oh Mon Dieu!