I wish I were a person who made my own bread. I have toyed with the thought, certainly. When I moved to North Adams, a small town in the Northern Berkshires, the first thing I did after partially unpacking my kitchen was to bake up several loaves of beer & mustard bread (a recipe I will have to post here soon) to bring to my neighbors and new landlord. Luckily I had been gifted a used bread machine by my father as a sort of house warming gift (READ: he wanted an excuse to upgrade himself to a nicer bread machine, and I'd always loved the idea of having one myself. Everybody wins). So as I unpacked and started to settle in to my new home, bread was being kneaded, and allowed to rest and rise in the kitchen without my having to do much of anything.
