“OMG,” I texted my sister frantically. “WHAT.IS.HAPPENING.”
Earlier, I had decided that 2014 would be the Year of Yeast. 2013 was, undoubtedly, the Year of Pastry, in which I masochistically baked batch after batch of cold, flaky dough. That process, while nerve-wracking, was pretty simple; after a while, I knew my way around a pie tin pretty well. Yeast, however, was shaping up to be something else entirely.
I’d warmed the yeast in a bit of milk, disappointed when bubbles didn’t appear as promised. Soldiering onward, I’d mixed the ball of batter, placed it in an oversized mixing bowl, and left it, covered, to rise. This is where you find me now: home alone, scared, fully expecting the dough to rise out of its plastic prison and devour me whole.
At this point, I abandoned texting and hit dial instead. “Nancy! The dough… it’s fucking enormous. Ohmygod. Like, it’s going to burst out of the saran wrap.” I could almost hear my sister rolling her eyes on the other line. “Yeah, Julie, that’s normal. Just unwrap it, let it breathe and deflate a little. Okay? I’ll be home soon. Bye.” Click.
Obediently, I uncovered a few inches of the bowl. The dough within jiggled and retreated, catching the plastic wrap as it deflated slightly. I watched in amazement, prodding at the porous mass. Gummy. Springy. Kinda cute (?). Really cool. I was calmer now. “I can get down with this,” I thought.
The next morning, after seeing what this lump of fermented flour could do, I decided that I was definitely down with it. As I removed a pan of gorgeous sweet orange buns from the oven, nary a thought of yeast beasts popped in my head. All I felt was pure joy and admiration, having watched my little dough babies become full-blown, fully-risen cinnamon rolls. I’d been pining for these beauties since first seeing them; I’d dreamt of being woken up Christmas morning by their sweet orange scent. This holiday season, I made it happen — and I conquered over my fear of fermentation in the process. 2014: the Year of Yeast!