I appear to have been possessed by the spirit of Paul Hollywood.
In the past two weeks I’ve made pizza, baguettes and a white cob. I’m contemplating croissants next week. And I swear my eyes are a teeny tiny bit bluer and sparkler than they used to be.
I’ve become obsessed with the hunt for a perfect baguette tin. I even looked for them in France last week in the temple to consumption which is Carrefour, unsuccessfully, until my brother pointed out that the French have no need to bake their own bread given that a divine artisan loaf from their local boulangerie costs peanuts.
My Amazon wish list is growing apace with dough scrapers, shapers and bread proving bags. This could be an expensive hobby. Yet it is so darn therapeutic to watch the raw ingredients turn into dough in Kitty the KitchenAid, then to bash out the tensions of the day with a good knead.
Where will I stop? Will I become a loaf bore, searching endlessly for the best starter and obsessed with the size of the holes in my risen produce? Or shall I stick to turning out a slightly-too-spread-out loaf which everyone happily consumes?
Only time will tell. The effects on my waistline are yet to be determined. Just so long as I don’t develop a soggy bottom.