Julia Child's French Bread *OR* The Hours

So, I've joined this baking blog called Daring Bakers. It's super cool. Every month they send out a challenge. One or two of the members choose a baking recipe that they would generally not consider because it is too lengthy, or too complicated or just too much something. They send out the recipe to everyone and we all follow it exactly. No substitutions, no experimenting. Then everyone blogs about it and publishes their posts on the same pre-ordained day. I thought it sounded like a ton of fun, especially when I learned that during December the challenge was a yule log.

So I signed up in the middle of January. I waited for a few weeks and low and behold, the first of February comes around and what was that in my inbox? Why it was an email from the Daring Bakers! The recipe was up on the blog and we could all begin. What had they chosen to challenge us with this month? Why, looky here! Julia Child's French Bread recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And holy cow! How long was this going to be? I wasn't sure but as I scrolled down, it just kept going! So I go back to the top, highlight the entire thing and print it out. Eight pages of 10pt font later, I had the entire recipe spread before me. Eight pages! This isn't a recipe, it's a novel. It should be titled, "The Complete Guide to French Bread for the Avid Reader by Julia Child and her writing team."

Knowing that I was leaving for Africa at the end of the month and having a crazy load of stuff to get done before I went, I contemplated skipping this challenge. (As a Daring Baker you can skip four challenges in a calendar year.) But what precedent would that set? Balking when it looks a little tough? Am I a DARING baker or what?! I threw on a little "Eye of the Tiger" and got myself pumped. Looking at my calendar, I only had two days empty enough to attempt this lengthy recipe. The first possibility was President's Day. Okay, better get it over with as soon as possible.

Fast forward to Monday, February 18th >>

As with all leisurely days, we got up late, ate breakfast late and after cleaning up and checking my email and daily blogs, it was almost 1pm before I started the dough. Nothing to report there. I let the ol' Kitchenaid do the hard work and since I make pizza dough almost weekly, I'm used to the kneading process. Julia's instructions were a bit different than any other bread dough I've made, but they weren't difficult to follow. Once I got the dough on it's first rise, Dug, the kids and I decided to go out to a neighborhood brew pub for lunch. Lunch was as good as it could be considering I had developed a migraine by this time. I had already taken an undisclosed amount of Advil followed by more Tylenol a little bit later, and still my head hurt enough to take away my appetite. I love food and for me to not greatly enjoy my Monroe St. Burrito was a major sign that my headache was something to be reckoned with.

Upon returning home, I took some more Advil and laid down, sleep being the only weapon left in my migraine-battling arsenal. After a two-hour nap, my head had finally submitted to the large amounts of painkillers swimming in my veins. Dug asked what he should do with the bread dough, assuming that it had killed itself waiting for me. I figured I'd go assess the damage.

Prior to rising, Julia suggests filling your vessel with 10 1/2 cups of water so you can know when the dough is finished. (It needs to be 3 1/2 times it's original size.) Amazingly enough, after over five hours of rising, the dough was just a little bit higher than it needed to be. The recipe said that at 70 degrees the dough would take about 3-5 hours to rise. Did Julia know her stuff or what?

So, I figured I would keep going and hope for the best. My only problem after the extended-rise/headache fiasco was flipping the risen dough onto my peel. (A peel is that flat piece of wood with a handle that pizza places use to slide the pies in and out of the oven.) After the dough is risen its last time, you take the poofy, oh-so-delicate loaf and flip it from the floured towel onto the cornmeal-strewn peel. The key is to use a tortoise strategy, whereas I'm more of a hare person. I fear that I deflated it a bit, but oh well.

After baking and filling the entire house with that loved-the-world-over scent of fresh-baked bread, the loaf had to cool completely. Something close to two hours. Are you freaking kidding me?! Nope, Julia wasn't. In order for the inside to "compose" itself (whatever that means) it really needs to cool completely. That's the way of French Bread apparently and since Julia hadn't steered me wrong yet, I decided to keep heeding her advice.

By the time the cooling process had finished, it was 1 am in the morning! Yep, you read that correctly. One o'clock ante meridiam! This recipe had taken me over 12 hours from start to finish! And what did I have to show for it? One 12-inch boule, or round loaf, of bread. That's an hour an inch, folks.

But oh! that bread. We decided to wait and have it for breakfast the next morning. (We'd only have to wait a few more hours anyway.) French bread with homemade strawberry jam and butter, washed down with hot tea. It was delicious.

By definition, French bread can be made with only three ingredients: flour, water and yeast. Who knew those three ingredients, under the correct conditions, could create such a blessed creation? Of course the crust was the true pleaser. Julia makes two suggestions when creating this bread at home. First, use tiles or a baking stone for the baking surface. And secondly, you must have steam present at the very beginning. The suggestion that I used, as far as the steam was concerned, was to throw some ice cubes directly on the floor of the 400 degree oven as soon as I slid the loaf on my baking stone. You might want to try another method. I ended up with puddles of brown I'm-not-sure-it-could-still-be-called water on the floor in front of my oven. If you follow her suggestions, though, you end up with a delicious loaf surrounded by the most exquisite crust. It is relatively thin, but crunchy and crispy and the perfect shade of golden brown. The crunch of the crust and the soft, chewiness of the inside was heavenly. (I'm pretty sure as I took a bite, sunbeams illuminated the slice and a faint Hallelujah chorus sounded.)

So was it a success, even with the migraine-intermission? Yes, yes it was. Would I do it again? Hmmmm...I don't know. That is an awful long time for one loaf of bread. Sure, most of it was waiting around, but it doesn't detract that hours and hours were spent for one loaf, no matter how divine. I might make another loaf in the distant future. Maybe making French bread is like giving birth. Wait long enough and you forget what a pain in the butt it is? We'll see.

All I know is this: With this post, I am now, truly, a Daring Baker!

We're off!

This is my last post for a couple weeks. We are off to Swaziland! Wish us luck!

Choice Goods Wednesday!

This will be the last Choice Goods post for a couple weeks while my hubby and I travel to Africa! I'm so excited!! I've been to all the countries in North America (snicker, snicker) and this will be my first trip off the continent! Moving on...

I'm trying so hard to vary it up, but I have to throw another kitchen item in the mix. Sorry.

Avocados.

Ever since I've started eating a more-or-less vegetarian diet, I've really come to appreciate avocados. They are delicious. (Try one in a grilled cheese sandwich, sprinkled with a little garlic salt and you've just experienced divinity.) The fact that they are high in good fat makes any dish more satiating. And don't even get me started on guacamole!


I normally buy a few every week. And though I'm great at cutting them in half and popping out the seed, I suck at making "lovely" slices. That is until I bought an avocado slicer. Now I make the most beautiful, unmushed, even slices. Photo worthy, even. (I just realized how cool it would be if I had some "real life" pictures of me using my avo slicer. Sorry, we ate the last ones the other day and I haven't gone grocery shopping.)

If you eat avocados in salads, sandwiches, whatever, this little gadget will make you so happy. Just slice the avo in half, remove the pit, and while holding one avocado half in your hand, gently press the slicer into the top and following the skin, slice through to the bottom. If you dump it over, out will fall perfectly sliced pieces of that delicious green fruit/vegetable/whatever.

The one drawback mine has is that it is one-size-fits-most. If you have an extra large or small avocado, you will have a little bit of trouble, either leaving some uncut or being unable to cut through without the skin getting in there. I've found that avocados, in general, are pretty uniform and it's pretty rare that one is so much on the extreme ends of the spectrum that I can't use the slicer at all. (Except those gigantic, kelly green, tasteless West Indian cultivars. Blech!) There are flexible, plastic slicers that are supposed to handle different sizes, but I've never tried one and can't vouge for it. I prefer the sturdy metal of mine, anyways. If you do try one, let me know how it handles.

So there you have it. I'm not a big fan of hyper-specialized tools in the kitchen. (Especially those ridiculous ones like the hot-dog cooker and the countertop pizza oven.) But in instances when you consume a lot of the given food, the old maxim "right tool for the job" holds its own.

Avocado slicers...they're choice!

Welcome to Crazy-town. I'm the Mayor.

So, you might have noticed there aren't a lot of posts lately. Let me explain.

The last two weeks have been full, full, full. We are part of a science co-op that I had to prepare two lessons for. My daughter requested a doctor party for her seventh birthday. (Note: After searching the web for several hours, I have come to believe that no one has ever thrown a doctor party before. Sucks for me, I had to come up with everything on my own.) I just joined an online baking blog which sent out their monthly challenge that was pretty lengthy (read: took 12 hours!), and I have to lead my online book club discussions for our next book, Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. It's just a measly 754 pages. This all wouldn't mean much on its own. But throw into that mix that everything needs to be done before Thursday, the 28th, and the pressure has just amped.

You see, Dug and I are flying halfway across the world, literally, to visit my parents in Swaziland, Africa. We leave Thursday and so far I've checked off the co-op classes, and the birthday party. I've finished the baking but have to write up my post on it and figure out this way that I've found to get Blogger to auto-post. I'm halfway done with the nine book club posts which all have to be done before I go because our fearless leader, Bethany, will be publishing them while I'm gone. And on top of it all, I've had to find caring, loving, wonderful people to agree to watch my four kids (who are home-schooled and are home during the day) for the two weeks we're gone. Mission accomplished on that front, owed completely to people sent directly from the Big Man Above. I have to shout from the rooftops, "God Bless the Nowaks, the Traylors, the Wais, the Wises, the Seaders and the Mitchells!! May they live long and prosper!" (I know, I can't help myself.)

I know I could have moved things around, not made it so hectic on myself, but I have to confess something to you. I love a challenge. I want to get on the plane knowing that I did it all. It's some wierd masochistic thing or some west-coast, wild-frontier attitude, I don't know that there's much difference between the two. Just that when it's all said and done, I'll be able to brag, "Yep, I did it all!"

So, please forgive me for my lack of posts, I've got a bit much on my plate. Don't worry, you'll know how it all ends up...

Factoid Friday!

Introducing Factoid Friday! I am a lover of the "weekly feature" on blogs. As reader, it gives you something to look forward to. As the blogger, it keeps me motivated and on top of things. With Choice Good Wednesdays and now Factoid Friday, you know that I'll be updating at least twice a week!

Now, just so you are clear, I need to let you in on a little-known fact. Factoid can mean two things. I think most know that it can be "a briefly stated and usually trivial fact." But that, my friends is the secondary definition. Want to know the first? According to Merriam-Webster Online, it is this, "an invented fact believed to be true because of its appearance in print." Fascinating, isn't it? (Well, you may not think so, but I certainly do.) A word that has two definitions diametrically opposite one another. No wonder English is such a difficult language to learn.

The part I love is that using the word factoid gives me the flexibility to either let you in on an amazing/interesting/bizarre bit of trivia OR reveal the error in a commonly-held belief. The latter being oh-so-common since the onset of the World Wide Web.

So for today's factoid...

Many of you know that people throughout the ages have eaten the liver of various animals and deemed it quite healthy. Now, I know the veggies (and many omnivores) out there are squirming, but bear with me. (You'll get that emphasis/horrible pun in a moment.) Liver is very high in iron, vitamin A, vitamin D and the B vitamins. It is also high in a butt-load of other nutrients including, suprisingly enough, vitamin C! That's all well and good, but here's the kicker.

Fish oil is very high in vitamin A, right? Well, since Polar Bears eat a diet full of fish-predators, their livers have such a concentration of vitamin A that they are toxic to humans! The Eskimos, Inuit and other high-latitude Natives eat the other parts but leave the liver.

So next time you are stranded in the Arctic wilderness and kill a polar bear in order to keep from being eaten, you can eat everything but, please, leave the liver alone! After all your hard work defeating that 1500lb white-furred bohemoth, you don't want to go and poison yourself by eating his liver, do you?

So, remember me when you get the cash for the movie rights to your polar bear survival story...because I saved your stinking life!

And that, my friends, is a factoid.

Choice Goods Wednesday!

I've been wanting to do a post on this particular item since Christmas, but other things came to the forefront. Back burner be gone! Release the Magnetix!

Over Christmas, Dug's wonderful mother gave the kids a 35-piece set of Magnetix. Magnetix is a cool building set consisting of magnet-ended rods and metal balls. Through the "magic" of magnetism, you can build all sorts of sweet objects.

The only problem is that 35 pieces was nowhere near enough. Fortunately, Ross Dress-For-Less had a bunch of sets. I bought two. One more with 35 and another with 85. So we're up to 155 pieces. And that's still not enough. I find myself just building and building until all the pieces are used up. Then I look sadly at the empty tin.

Whenever the box is opened, everyone gathers around and starts building. It's addictive. The tactile pleasure of snapping the pieces together, the instant gratification of creativity, it's impossible to pass by without building a quick little something.

A cool side-benefit is that my kids are understanding how shape affects stability. Since the rods can move along the face of the ball, a triangular construction is immediately obvious as the most stable shape. My six-year old daughter is constantly reminding everyone, "If you don't want it to move, make it a triangle."

Yesterday, while my oldest kids did homeschool, my three-year old kept busy building all sorts of things for almost an hour! That alone is worth buying a kit.

Being a bit of a nerd, it's obvious why Magnetix appeal to me. But they will appeal to both sides of the brain-spectrum. The left-brainers will love the science/building aspect and the right-brainers will embrace the creativity that this kit unleashes. And the coolest part is the complete lack of age-restrictions. (Well, that's not entirely accurate. You wouldn't want baby sticking those steel balls down her gullet.) In our family everyone from the three-year old to the thirty-five year old enjoy this toy.

Magnetix...they're choice!

Stupid Things to Do #4536

So Dug's traveling this week. He's in Philadelphia. He's so happy because he gets to try an "authentic Philly Cheese Steak sandwich," from Philly!

My problem is that when he travels I have a hard time going to bed. I will get ready for bed, brush my teeth, check the doors, tuck in the sleeping kids, then sit on the bed and procrastinate by reading, cleaning, whatever. The act of laying down, by myself, and turning out the light is almost impossible for me. I stay up until 2 and 3 am postponing the inevitable. That is Stupid Things to Do #4535. What idiot mother stays up into the wee hours of the morning when her children are going to wake up at 7:30am no matter what? (Hint: she's the one who wrote this post.) Last night I went a step further. I stayed up making cupcakes and blogging, got ready for bed and finally laid down. The headboard of our bed is a small book shelf. Yep, you guessed it. I turned around and looked at the books. You can see where this is going right? Wrong. It's worse than you can possibly imagine.

Any wife who has had her husband gone overnight has worried about him not returning. Plane crashing, car crashing, whatever. It's a woman-thing. I think it's the main reason for my avoidance of going to bed. The bed is the loneliest place in the whole house. It's the one place where I go and, on a normal day, find myself alone. In the kitchen I will prepare meals alone. On the computer, I am usually doing something quasi-by myself. In the bathroom, I can lock myself in and at least have no one in the room, albeit they are usually yelling something through the door during my "private times." But in the bed, I'm always accompanied by Dug. It's a place where I am never alone...except when he's traveling. When I go to bed alone, it's the spot where I most vividly imagine him being gone forever. Back to last night...

What did I do? I grabbed this book called City of Refuge. It is a collection of stories about God changing lives compiled by a church in White City, Oregon. We have it because one of the women featured in it was a friend of mine. More accurately, her parents are two of my parents' oldest and dearest friends. What's the big deal, you ask. Only this. She died of cancer in 2003. The story is her struggle with, and ultimately, loss to that disease. I knew it going in, and I did it anyway.

Becky's story is sad, yet beautiful and encouraging. She was diagnosed when she was 28 years old. Three years younger than I am now. She was married with three young children and had three sisters with whom she was close, and one niece that was more like a fourth sister. The book tells of her impact on other people and the amount of love she had to give. It's about her courage and compassion that touched everyone around her and how her faith was her strength.

Perhaps the most poignant part was when she said, in a letter to her husband, "I would never give up what we had together, our lives and our children, even if it meant not having cancer. I would rather be fighting cancer alongside you than to be perfectly healthy and not have you in my life." She goes on to talk about life after her diagnosis, "I was so wrapped up in every day life...that I didn't take the time to really step back and ask what was important. Now that I'm sick, I get to spend so much more time with people...I wonder now if that's how it was supposed to be all along. Now I feel more alive."

Everytime her dad asked her how she was, she always responded, "Dad, I'm not giving up." Those were her last words. The last time he asked, she said the same thing, "Dad, I'm not giving up." and then slipped into a coma. She fought. She fought hard. But for some reason God decided that it was her time to be with Him.

While she was battling, she received a prophetic word that thousands would be touched by her story. Her family assumed it would be her victory over cancer. A short time after she died, they were approached about her story being included in the book and at that moment they knew, at least in part, what her struggle was for. They knew it was the story of her enduring spirit, complete reliance on Jesus and outflow of love during her fight that would be the inspiration to others.

I've had that book since last year. Last night was the first time I read it.

You can see what happened now, can't you? I finished the story about 2:30am. Then I cried for thirty minutes or so, because emotions are always more volatile at night and even moreso when you are freaking exhausted! I cried because Becky died and her parents had to witness the death of their child. I cried because I could die and leave my children and husband. I cried because my dad would be sad if I died. I cried because...well, I think you get the picture. But it doesn't stop there. I then had horrible dreams of my children drowning in frozen ponds. And when I woke up, I couldn't get back to sleep. It was a loooong night.

And that, dear readers, is Stupid Things to Do #4536. Do not, I repeat, do not read the powerful and heart-wrenching story of a family friend who succumbs to cancer after a valiant fight at 2am in the morning while your husband is traveling out of town.

Unless you don't want to get any sleep and you want to wake up with your eyes feeling like someone implanted Angelina Jolie's lips under your lids by mistake. If that's the case, by all means, go ahead.