Over the last few years, one of my fastest growing passions is discovering the science and method behind making artisan breads. Having been raised in a strictly white Wonder Bread household, wheat bread seemed strange to me, even in my late teen years. Artisan breads seemed to make its presence widely known sometime in the mid ‘90’s. I’m quite sure that either coast was probably ahead of the game, but the midwest seems to be about five years behind in many respects (clothes, music, food, etc.).

My first taste of handmade breads actually came during my time spent in the Azores, Portugal. I distinctly remember one of my first mornings in my Portuguese concrete house. I was startled awake by a loud, persistent beeping emanating from some miniscule European-styled van. I got up and rushed to the window to see only this van and a squat, richly tanned man with a thick, black mustache putting what looked like rolls in a plastic bag hanging from my neighbor’s doorknob. I wondered why in the world some people hung plastic bags from their knobs in the evening. Before tearing away and honking incessantly once again, I noticed through the passenger door a huge pile of rolls. They just sat there in the van; one gigantic pile of rolls. I was perplexed. That wasn’t Wonder Bread! What was that?

I inquired some coworkers of mine about the experience I had that morning. I found out that, yes, indeed, people did get fresh bread rolls delivered to their doors every morning. These rolls were called Paposecos and they were just amazing, fist sized rolls. I always woke up, sliced a couple rolls, and smeared butter on them. They would always still be oven warm and the butter would soften and melt through. They were unbelieveable. Getting them was a cinch, too. All that needed to be done was to hang a bag on the door and leave 100 escudos inside. That amounted to a whopping 60 cents for 10 delicious rolls.

About a year later, after a night out in Portuguese cafes and pubs, some friends and I decided to pay a visit to the local bakery that made these Papasecos (drunk young people tend to get the munchies). When we walked in, I was shocked by the amount of flour that seemed to blanket everything, even the barely clothed bread makers. There were trays of rising bread on rollaround racks. Bread peels hung, noticeably dried from the continued exposure to hot, open flame. The visual experience hit me with a solid punch, but its impact was light compared to the scent of the yeast contained within the Papasecos themselves. I will never forget that smell and how I began to equate it to real bread. I bought twenty rolls for myself.

After the explosion of artisan breads, I realized that these are not just more tasty and more beautiful breads than the ones produced on a massive scale. What artisan breads do is make the connection between the baker, the ingredients, and the people who will eat the final product. Artisan breads walk across the line so few foods seem to by connecting the baker to the consumer with a labor of love.

Over the last few years, I’ve made an attempt to learn how to make these breads by broadening my understanding of breads and the science required to make them good. I’d like this short essay to be a starting point in examining bread making as a whole. My intention is to expose excellent artisan bakeries as well as discussing methods for those of us who make bread at home. Since science plays the largest role in making a delicious loaf, I think that an informative discussion on methods and ingredients would not only be educational but entertaining as well for those epicurious among us. To me breadmaking is one of the ultimate expressions of culinary art and good bread is something that almost everyone loves.

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