The Ginger Bread Man is the story of a young man’s journey of self-transformation from mediocrity to magic. After leaving an unfulfilling office job, a seemingly chance meeting with a Baker sets his life on a new course. Through the guidance and tutelage of this mysterious yet dedicated man, Jacob learns the simplicity and enchantment of baking. Along the way he finds love, meets new people and even invents a new type of gingerbread cookie. Through baking, Jacob discovers magic in his everyday life.
Excerpt
“Good dough is the foundation for everything we create,” explained the baker. “If the dough isn’t right, nothing will work. You must learn to make good dough first.”
“How long will it take me to learn to make the dough?” asked Jacob.
“It will take as long as it takes,” replied the baker. “Always take the time to learn a skill right.”
“Go to the pantry and get the flour, salt and yeast,” instructed the baker. Jacob retrieved the items as instructed and placed them on the counter.
“What else do I need?” he Jacob.
“That is all for now,” said the baker.
“We’re going to make dough from just these three things?” asked Jacob.
“Oh yes,” said the baker, “we’ll need some warm water.”
Jacob went to the facet and ran the water for a few moments until it began to get hotter. “How warm?” he asked.
“Luke warm is fine,” said the baker. “Feel your arm.”
Jacob felt his arm and turned to the baker. “When it feels as warm as your arm,” said the baker, “it’s ready.”
Jacob brought the water over to other ingredients on the counter. He looked at the baker for further instruction.
“Mix the yeast with the water,” instructed the baker. Jacob mixed the yeast with the water until it dissolved. “Good,” said the baker. “Now take some of the flour and make a small mound out of it.”
Jacob began to clumsily pile up the flour. The baker shook his head. “You’re not concentrating enough,” he said.
“It’s just a mound,” said Jacob. He tried to pile up the flour in random sweeping motions.
“Making dough is deceptively simple,” explained the baker. “There are only four ingredients and six steps. But the simplicity makes each of the elements that much more important.”
“How can it be simple and complex?” asked Jacob. In his mind he had pictured large mixing bowls, big metal spoons and a vast array of exotic ingredients. He looked down at the lop-sided mound of flour.
“Flour, water, yeast and salt,” continued the baker. “The importance of a thing is more than just its complexity and the complexity of a thing is more than just the number of its parts.”
Jacob thought about this for a moment. He had always been taught the importance of a job was related to the number of your responsibilities. The more you had to do the more important you must be.
“Who is more important,” asked the baker, “the man who does many of the least important jobs or the man who does the few most important jobs?”
“I suppose the second man,” said Jacob.
“Making the dough is the most important job,” said the baker. “Flour, water, yeast and salt are the most important ingredients.”
“I see,” said Jacob.
“There are only six steps,” continued the baker. “Mix, mound, knead, rise, punch and rise again. But that makes each step very important. Mounding is just as important as rising or kneading.”
“I think I understand,” said Jacob. He began to shape the flour into a mound again, this time much more deliberately and carefully.
“Good,” said the baker. “Do not be distracted; do not rush. Always concentrate on the task at hand as if it is the most important.”
“Because in that moment it is the most important,” added Jacob.
“That is right,” said the baker with a smile. “You are ready for the next step. Make a small pocket in the center of your mound.”
Jacob followed the baker’s instructions. “Pour in the water?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the baker. Jacob poured the water into the center of mound. “Now place some flour on your hands and begin to knead the dough. Push the dough away with the heels of your hands. Then pick up the opposite edge and fold it toward you.”
Jacob tried pushing and folding the dough a couple of times with limited success. “You’re rushing again,” corrected the baker. “Go slower and concentrate on each move. Push and fold. Push and fold.”
Jacob did as the baker instructed and started to maintain a steady rhythm in his kneading. “How long?” he asked.
“What does it matter?” asked the baker.
“But how do I know when it’s ready?” asked Jacob.
“When it feels ready,” said the baker. “It should be soft and smooth but not too dry. It stops sticking to your hands and springs back to the touch.”
“Okay,” said Jacob. “If it gets too dry should I add more water?”
“Kneading is about balance,” explained the baker. “The right amount of flour, the right amount of water and the right amount of air.”
“Air?” asked Jacob.
“Yes,” answered the baker. “While you knead you allow air into the dough. The air is food for the yeast and provides a better rise.”
The dough felt dry so Jacob added more water. This made it feel too wet so he added more flour.
“Are you feeling with your heart, your head or your hands?” asked the baker.
“My head,” said Jacob. “No wait, probably my heart.”
“When kneading, feel with your hands,” said the baker.
“Oh,” said Jacob.
“You’ll know when to use your heart and head,” said the baker. “For now add a pinch more flour and you should be back in balance.”
After around ten minutes the dough started to feel right to Jacob. “I think it’s ready,” he said and looked at the baker tentatively.
“Good,” said the baker. “Shape it into a ball and place it in that bowl. Cover the bowl and allow the dough to rise.”
“How long?” asked Jacob. He regretted asking as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
The baker laughed. “Until the dough doubles in size,” said the baker. “Probably about two hours.”
“I suppose we need to be patient,” said Jacob.
“Yes,” said the baker. “Or we could make up a batch of sweet dough while we wait.”
Copyright 2008 Dominic R. Villari. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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