Confessions of a Would-Be Baker

I don’t consider myself a professional baker by any means. I’ve never studied a baking program, never worked in a bakery. I’ve learned a few tricks from books, watched a few videos like everyone else. And I’ve learned a bit by doing. Making larger quantities of bread than just a couple of loaves at a time.

I’m more of a serious home baker. I still mix my doughs mostly by hand. I still struggle with consistent results. I look at more experienced bakers who turn out hundreds of loaves by themselves, instead of a few dozen like me.

Yet I manage to sell my bread and make a small living from it. But that does not make me professional.

The physical toll of mixing dough

It’s hard work. I feel the physical toll at the end of a day of dough mixing and still facing an early morning shift with Mildrith, the wood-fired oven. Math was never a strong suit of mine. Yet, I spend up to an hour each baking day, working out hydration percentages, calculating how much extra sourdough levain I need to make. I’ve had to learn Baker’s Math. Yes, that’s “a thing.”

Managing supplies, placing orders, taking orders — all of that is part of a professional baker’s life, yes, but I’m a long way from being a professional baker.

I take particular pride in being self-taught. It’s all fuelled by a passion for bread and baking that still pulses through me. The magic of mixing flour, water, and salt, feeling it come alive in my hands, taking on a life of its own. Pulling lofty, chestnut brown loaves out of the oven, the gorgeous aroma, and the great flavour of freshly baked loaves. And the generous compliments of customers, who clutch their bread close to their stomachs and smile!

A professional baker might be less charmed by these pleasures. Perhaps there is a point where a hardened baker takes more joy in devising a baking schedule that results in a 15 percent increase in bread output. Or introducing a new piece of equipment that produces more uniformly shaped buns.

The pleasure of a fine loaf

I can appreciate those kinds of rewards. But every baker I’ve met or read about is driven by the end result: the pleasure people take in a loaf or cake made from their own toil and ingenuity. The crust colour of a baguette translates to flavour and texture. The loftiness of a country loaf suggests a soft, pillowy crumb. There is something magic in the craft of baking. I’d venture to say all bakers, professional or otherwise, are turned on by it.

From time to time, I crave a baker-mentor. Someone to turn me in a new direction, show me how to achieve a 15 percent increase in bread production, or suggest how to incorporate pastry into the Happy Monk repertoire.

I get inspired about growing wheat here on Pender (where would I ever start?), milling more grain for better flavour (very time consuming and technical) or even starting a full-blown bakery.

I’ve been warned away from all of these ambitions by bakers and friends who know me too well. “It’s too much work just being a baker, David,” one baker friend told me. “Plus, I don’t want to have to come to Pender every time your mill needs to be dressed.”

A worthy mentor

Knows me too well.

Jennifer is my real mentor. She sits patiently, quietly (for the most part) as I rattle off my ambitions, plans to take over the world. Turn it into bread paradise, feed the multitudes with a handful of grain.

But I’m coming around to the belief that my real ambition is simplicity. That I need nothing more than to produce a few beautiful loaves for sustenance and pleasure. The kind of bread that you can hold against your belly, and that makes you smile.

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The physical toll of mixing dough

The pleasure of a fine loaf

A worthy mentor

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