#12 I used to make homemade focaccia for my roommates.
I used to make homemade focaccia for my roommates. I used to spend hours in the kitchen. Waiting for yeast to proof. Kneading the dough with my bare hands. This was a pre hand mixer era. My roommates would be watching TV in the background. They would drop in to watch my dough rise. Yes, they would just watch. They did not help. I never wanted their help. I need to have full control of my process or I run the risk of kicking and screaming internally.
I don't make the rules and I simply follow them. Kitchen rules say: “when Paula is in the kitchen everyone must part”. Like I said, those are the rules. So I continue in my focaccia making process.
A long and strenuous day (if you don't have a hand mixer) of mess, loads of dishes and the perfect 110 degree temperature of water. I had to buy a thermometer for this. A finger in the water will simply not work. I was not fortunate enough to have the power to determine the temperature of water with the touch of my finger. Yeast is far too delicate to be guessing water temperature. I once waited for 8 hours for dough to rise. It never did. Later I learned, the water I used to proof the yeast was too hot. It was a waste of a day and I served baked flour to my roommates. BAKED FLOUR!
I had an era where I was head baker, experimenter, and master chef. My roommates were the bread breakers. Gina knew how to tell me in so many ways what was wrong and what was great. She named my cookie baking, a series of “healthy biscuits”. As Gina was the sugar queen, I was a health goddess. Instead of three cups of sugar I used banana, apple sauce and ½ cup of sugar. What nonsense. The baking gods are probably looking down at me in disgust. They probably had something to do with my baked flour and hours of waiting for bread to rise with no avail. I just wasn't paying attention. I didn't understand the art of baking quite yet.
So when I baked cookies, they were healthy biscuits. When I made muffins, they became scones, but HEY, like I said, I was in an era of experimenting.
Back to the focaccia. I used to make homemade focaccia for my roommates. We lived together for four wonderful years until we didn't. I baked bread and they would break it.
To bake bread is more than to have a meal together. It is to share a sense of sisterhood. Paula made the scrumptious bread and I as a roommate shall enjoy it. It fosters some meaningful connection. Some interconnectedness between baker and taster. A cooperation. Let’s be honest, I can not eat a whole loaf of bread all on my own. It is the duty of the sisterhood for the bread to be baked and shared.
I remember the first time I made the perfect focaccia. Gina took a picture of the moment like a proud mum. At that moment in time, I had a friend who was so good at just hanging out with us. What a better way to share bread than with a friend and my roommate who just happens to be my best friend as well. I am saying it is not everyday you have the perfect roommate situation. Have you heard the roommate horror stories? During the four years of roommate life, I had the very best, movie type, real ass, truly connected roommate situation (until it wasn't). I would not change any of it. No regrets. In the four years, I lived with three very different and beautiful people. I was truly blessed.
Anyway, my first focaccia was an absolute delight. It was the warm, perfect, moist, rosemary bread you could ever have. We devoured it. My roommate, my friend, and me. It was just us three. We ate bread that should have been for five friends between the three of us. Gina broke the bread and my friend inhaled. It was my friend's first time eating focaccia and learning how to say FOCACCIA. The bread broke and little pieces of me were distributed at that moment. I was bliss. Bread is what brings us together. I brought us together. All I had to do was bake the bread.
I used to make homemade focaccia for my roommates, but now I don't. Whether it was divine timing, a series of unfortunate events, or simply the mystery of life, I don’t make homemade focaccia for my roommates anymore. No bread is to be broken. It is okay. I make focaccia for Favian now. Favian my roommate, best friend, and lover. It lacks though. It is not the same. Where is the sisterhood?
When researching about my focaccia and “bread breaking” I read, “It has become a deeply personal and societal act of love and reconciliation. When taken at its word, the phrase suggests uniting after being apart”. In the moments when I would make the bread, I felt love. It was a way for me, Paula, to share my love. I felt a union of sorts with my roommates and with friends. It was a connection I have always dreamed of. Bread can not last forever nor can friendships, both are bound to spoil in one way or another. I guess it is what we do with the remains. Compost or feed to the birds. It will all come back as the universe sees fit. Last thing I wanted to say is “it's hard to remain enemies when you've broken bread together”. So this one's for you. Let me bake you a focaccia again.