Olive Loaf and Laughable

          The series of events that took me from kitchen to bedroom with the fresh bread dough were actually quite logical. With that being said, I recognize that, having woken up at 3am this morning spooning the dough bowl, I might have crossed a line.

          I mixed up my latest batch of bread – kalamata olive and rosemary – and gently turned it into a large bowl to rise. I waited an hour, nervously peeking over the edge of the bowl, but nothing happened. This is not the kind of dough you knead to pack with air; you just mix the ingredients once and rely solely on the yeast and vital wheat gluten to do their thing. That means that temperature is essential. And the kitchen was too cold.

          I thought it just needed more time, but after nearly 3 hours the dough’s progress was pathetic, and I was becoming antsy. So I did what I thought seemed right: I brought the dough bowl upstairs, heat rises after all. But the temperature difference on the second floor seemed negligible. I plunked the bowl on top of the dryer and contemplated turning it on, but after battling internally with my desperation to save the loaf and my moral standards about energy conservation, I decided it just wouldn’t do. That’s how the bowl made it to the foot of my bed where I wrapped it into a nest of down comforter and curled up with my book while I waited for the bread to rise.

          I woke up several hours later to the smell of bright olives and yeast, and for a moment thought I might be outside. I was in my bed, of course, having fallen asleep reading, and now hugging the dough bowl tightly to my chest. I quickly hustled downstairs and tucked the bowl into the refrigerator as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired, but I did notice that the dough had risen to the appropriate height, my body heat having provided that essential temperature shift.

          When I let this story slip this morning over breakfast service at the Inn, my coworkers of course had a few things to say about it. The jokes, many of them cheap shots and, obviously, lewd, ranged from puns about taking something to bed to get a rise out of it (ha) to the ever classic, “Hey, any port in a storm.” I agree that I may have taken my love of food to a new level last night, but pulling the dough from the refrigerator this afternoon to ready it for baking, I poked the now fluffy loaf and couldn’t help but think to myself, a little affection goes a long way.