Matter of Loaf and Death?

As I sit and think about this article, I have to wonder, amidst credit crisis, climate change, war and famine, whether writing about baking bread is important. To me it is, because I believe that we must rediscover some of the basic delights of life, maybe now more than ever.
The position of bread within our culture and language is one of comfort and sustainability and the breaking of bread is synonymous with hospitality and friendship. At a recent talk that I attended, Andrew Whitley, founder of Bread Matters, pointed out that the very word ‘companionship’ is based on the Latin sharing of bread. Again and again our language uses bread-baking metaphors to describe wider feelings and issues, with the baked loaf representing completeness. In her poem You’re, Sylvia Plath describes her perfect baby as her ‘high riser’ her ‘little loaf’ – wonderfully emotive phrases full of love and aspiration.
So, we have been sustained by bread for eons to the point that it has gained life-blood status in our very language, yet the industrially-produced bread that we buy in the shops is tasteless, textureless, high in fat and low in nutrition, and over-priced. What has happened?
My mum started baking her own bread when my sister and I were at school. The sight of my mum kneading dough has therefore been an integral part of my upbringing, and I still find it comforting to see her chasing the dough around the table in a vague haze of flour, taking up twenty minutes of her day, every other day, in a simple combination of flour, water and yeast. She does not spend a lot of money or time on this task, yet she adds value to all our lives with her production of fresh bread and it is not unusual for small crowds to gather at coffee time.
It is possible for me to buy half-decent bread locally, I’m lucky to have a local baker. I tried a bread-maker but found it rather soulless. For me, the satisfaction of making bread is largely about the effort and the process. When I can’t make the time to do it properly, I would rather just give it a miss altogether. We shouldn’t have crisis about the shortcuts that we take, I buy bread when I have to and make it when I can. However, listening to Andrew Whitley talking I had to wonder, is bread-making (or the lack of it) representative of a core issue in modern life? When we cease to dedicate some time to fundamental, life-sustaining actions (like making our own bread), do we lose anything? Do we gain anything by taking the shortcut? Buying the bread or, for example, writing an email rather than a letter?
There is a danger, with many actions, that with the loss of time spent, we lose the heart of the action. Emails are great, but when we use them to say sorry or thank you or I love you, then maybe we are in trouble. Many acts are enriched by the spaces between, the moments to think about what we are doing. If bread is a metaphor for life, time spent is of vital importance. The making of good bread is reliant on a chemical reaction between the different ingredients as it rises, creating natural enzymes and making it nutritious and tasty. If you don’t spend the time, you end up eating a brick – make of that what you will.
There is also a wider issue with time. An email might be quicker but expectations on our productivity have gone up. We write messages quicker, but have to write many more messages in any given time. We fill up the ether with more of the same and we gain nothing. Our messages lose gravitas and meaning because they are pounded out without proper thought or consideration, ten to the dozen, and we have as little time as before to stop and stare. We have lost the time when we would have chosen paper, filled our pen, walked to the post box … when, oh when, do we ponder? If buying bread gives you free time to read a good book or go for a walk in the rain, great, but does it?
My point is that there are moments in all our lives when a takeaway, a supermarket loaf or an email is the right solution and has a place in our lives. But when we cease to question this place and realize that we have not written a letter for years or ever made a curry from scratch, then what are we losing as a result? When I spend twenty minutes getting into a car, driving to the shops and parking for a loaf of bread, I have to consider whether I would have been better off making my own.
But it’s not just about time, it’s also about connection. Connection to the things we do. Andrew Whitley says that in the case of making bread, machines can knead dough more effectively than we can with our hands, and of course it is quicker and easier so, why not? The reason, he says, is our connection to the bread.

”In using your body’s energy to mix and work the dough, you are literally giving of yourself, and a loaf made like this contains and therefore expresses you in a way that cannot be said of ingredients transformed – however conveniently – by the ingenuity of distant engineers and technologists.” (Bread Matters, Andrew Whitely)

When did we lose this emotional connection with our food, I wonder, and how much does this reflect a deeper emotional disconnect in our society? I can pass a whole day rushing around without connecting with anyone beyond my immediate family (and sometimes not even them) and when this happens I am efficient in my use of time, but I am alone. I have lost my place and my purpose. It is so easy to make my day with a smile or a helping hand – but I cannot expect this kind of consideration if I cannot spare the time to give it to others.
I think that we need to make (and feel) a connection again and again, and not just with our food – with our lives. Making bread is therapeutic because it is physical and constructive. In a very immediate sense, we can achieve something good – knead it, bake it, eat it. Like freshly mown grass and the milky smell of a newborn, the smell of freshly baked bread transports us to a better, warmer, richer place. With little money, effort or time, we can have a positive impact on our immediate environment. Home-baked bread represents sustenance, both emotional and physical.
When we find ourselves without the time to plant and strum and soak and write and knead, we lose our connection with our own capabilities at the most fundamental level. We can run to achieve great things and yet forget that it is by doing small things well, that one can become, and feel, great.