Mission DIY Bread Machine

Everyone loves bread. But still everyone spends their time talking about how carbs are bad for you, mustn’t eat carbs blah blah blah obese blah blah weight watchers blah blah etc - but everybody loves bread. Even the English language supports the eating of bread: “Best thing since sliced bread…” Well, with such a topsy turvy week of travelling and visiting people I have found that toast has been the answer to nearly all my problems and a good one at that. Anyway, everybody adores bread to such an extent it has even been slipped into the English language. It’s got to mean something, surely? Even if it doesn’t, it got me thinking about a bread machine experiment my family and I have been living lately.

We jumped on the bread band wagon and bought a bread machine not long ago. Got told it was terribly easy, tasted wonderfully and mixed up the usual eating routine thing. We thought it would be great fun to make our own bread – you know, to be self sufficient in this era of all things pre-bought and manufactured. My mother and I thought it would be wonderful to be able to infuse the house with the sweetly comforting smells of homemade bread…ahh to live the life of those running the real life version of House on the Prairie. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Women spent years baking and making bread and generally feeding their families from scratch. It couldn’t be that hard…could it?

Little did we know it had to be assembled. And who in the unit that is my mother and I, assembles things? Me. Since I was big enough to hold an Allen Key I was putting together all things Ikea and so the job was mine. But first we had to pick it up and rumour had it this was going to be to be an early morning, shoving house wives out of the way, racing down the aisles affair.

Before anything we had to scout for a Lidl – because this was the only place where one could buy a decent bread machine that was not going to cost us half a kidney.

Lidl found, check.

Found out it opened at 9am – or so we thought. Once there, we discovered it actually opened at 9.30…but it’s ok, we were there at 8.40 because we clearly had nothing better to do…and waited in the queue. With the old people and housewives.

In the queue we got to talking with a pair of elderly sisters and found out they had already bought a few of these bread machines and were chuffed. They said they spent all their time making and freezing bread and it was a delicious pastime. My mother and I licked our lips in silent anticipation and although my mother somehow had the energy to make small talk with these women, all I was thinking about was how to get to the door before them.

Suddenly the doors swung open and the queue crawled forward and whilst my mother was still very much deeply in conversation with one of the sisters, I dug deep into my memory and remembered the layout of Lidl – of which we had done recon. the day before, and whispered into my mother’s ear: you’re not here to make friends, we’re here for the bread machine! I sped off, skidding down the aisles and she followed. As if in slow motion I launched one of my hands out of the sleeve of my jumper and set it down with a slap on the nearest machine yelling SHOTGUN in my head, (I blame my boy cousin who’s re-implanted the shotgun way of life into mine). I hauled the machine under one arm and casually made my way back towards the cashiers, like the cat who got the bread making cream.

We arrived back home in time to have breakfast, flourishing our morning’s catch. We dumped it down on the huge chest freezer and left it there until we realized it was far too large to just stay there if not being useful. My mother and I looked to each other to see if we could decide what to do with the mass of food making machine we were suddenly faced with. The idea was so exciting, the mission was adrenaline creating and the mere thought of having large amounts of warm bread at our disposal was a taste bud, saliva gland prompting flood in the happening. But first we had to tackle The Machine. Eventually we did investigate the huge box it was encased in…

…and it wasn’t that bad actually. Were it not for the constant warnings of FIRE HAZARD, BEWARE - it all looked quite straight forward. Just, whip it out the box, plug it in, don’t set it on fire, bung ingredients in and off you trot. So long as we didn’t set it on fire. After having read the entire instruction manual, and please note that I don’t usually read instruction manuals unless it has all gone terribly wrong and actually the only answer by then, should be to send it back to the manufacturers...well, I tried and I read them this time and the effect was panic. I was scared to have one of the menopause hot flushes I’ve been kindly given by female family members for fear it would catch fire…but it all seemed quite straight forward and easy.

Got the ingredients, put them in, chose the programe – figured I would make a sweet loaf, pressed the on button and walked off. I couldn’t help but come back and visit the machine a few times but the internal condensation was making it hard to see and it was making noise, so I figured it was ok…until 2 hours into the 3 when I realized it was too hot. The machine was sporting a very high temperature and I panicked. I had to turn it off at the wall and leave the lid open and then realized that it had in fact not been mixing and what I was staring at was a huge mass of warm wannabe dough. With raisins. Making bread and being like the people in House on the Prairie was not as easy as it had seemed at first.

I’m one of these people that goes away and thinks about things and lets all the information make its way inside my head and then conclude. Yes, it would appear as a slow process and yes, many of you may be surprised to know I am actually not mentally swift, but it does happen…not all the time and not with everything, but it does happen. And so, a week down the line I figured out that that little bag holding two spare bits that looked terribly complicated and I had thrown back in the box - were probably central to the making of bread.

Turns out the spare bit was the one that would stir the mixture and actually help make the bread. I popped it in, put the ingredients in and this time realized that the liquids were supposed to go in at the end…another factor I had not taken in when I read the manual. The machine made noises and it fogged up again BUT with the difference that this time it did not appear to be running a dangerously high temperature and I prayed it would not burn the house down. If it had I would have pleaded temporary insanity due to overload of languages in the instruction manual. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. But I would have.

Out popped the bread, normal, looking great and it was warm and I had the butter at the ready. As my mouth watered faster than I could swallow my pre-stomach juices I peered inside the baking/mixing tin and realized I had lost that bleeding spare part that was crucial to the mixing and making of the warm, end result! I looked everywhere. Inside the machine, outside of it, down my top, on the floor, on the kitchen table and finally had the wonderful idea of looking at the base of the bread. And there it was. Deeply embedded within the fresh, warm and nearly perfect loaf I had just proudly flourished at the kitchen and all those within eye and ear shot. Grabbing a knife I dug deep, pulled the spare bit out thus ruining the centre of the bread and stared at it.
How on earth was I supposed to have put the rotating bit in the tin, short of super gluing it to the spot – but then it wouldn’t have spun…so how on earth was I supposed to have put the rotating bit in the tin?!

A few weeks later, once the information had made its way through my not so very swift mind, I still had no answer. And I still do not. I make bread. And the bread comes out with a 5cms by 5cms piece of metal that helped make it and at the same time, helps destroy it. But dammit, I make bread. And anyway, perfection would be boring.