Baking is so obedient. So reliably consistent —you add a tablespoon of yeast to your dough, and it rises. Slowly and imperceptibly at first, sure, but then you turn around and it’s doubled into a pillowy soft mound. Magic! So close at hand!
(Unless, of course, your yeast is no good or your water is too hot or you add too much flour or something unexpected goes awry and your dough doesn’t rise. And then you have to fight the urge to crumble to the floor of the kitchen and quietly moan things like “is nothing sacred?” and “god I need some warm carbs” and “I’d like to divorce 2020 and have a torrid affair with 2018”.)
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